Fantasy & Science Fiction v071n04 (1986 10)

37th Anniversary Issue

MACAZINi OF,

OCTOBER

Frederik Pohl Isaac Asimov Michael Shea
Harlan Ellison Algis Biidrys John Brunner
Robert Holdstock Nancy Springer
Lucius Shepard Reginald Bretnor

James Tiptree^ Jr.

lAO

6585

Blish, Harlan Ellison, Ursula K. LeGuin and
18 others— 2 2 startling answers to the question

“AFTER LIFE, WHAT NEXT?”

Afterlives is a new collection of 20 stories
and two poems, many of them published
here for the first time, that explore with
brilliant imagination and artistry the ulti-
mate question of life after death. Included is
the Harlan Ellison masterpiece “The Region
Between” in Its original Illustrated version.

AFTERLIVES

Stories About Life After Death
Edited and with an introduction by

PAMELA SARGENT and IAN WATSON

A Vintage OiiglnaE Paperbound. now at your bookstore.

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NO SAFE PLACE

Anne Moroz

A riveting space thriller atxxjt a woman
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Kate Harlin is the sole survivor of a tragic
space expedition in which she saw her
crew-mates spiral one by one into
homicidal madness, the victims of a
strange contagion. Kate is forced to
abandon ship and crew and escape in a
cryogenic lifeboat. She is rescued from
deep space oblivion only to be closely
questioned and held prisoner by a hostile
and suspicious expedition sponsor, the
Consortium. What drove her crew-mates
insane? And is she herself doomed to
madness? Kate is forced to return to the
ship where the entity that killed her crew-
mates is alive. . .and waiting.

Cover art by Jim Warhda

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(In Canada: 0-445-20168-1/$4.50)

ROGUE MOON

Algis Budrys

A classic novel from an award-winning
author about a mysterious structure on the
Moon, and its effect on those sent to
explore it.

Scientist Ed Hawks had created the matter

transmitter, an amazing device that could

serxl a man to the Moon and at the same

time create his duplicate on Earth. Many ^

volunteers had been sent to the Moon

by Hawks to explore the baffling structure ^ 401 ^

found there — only to die mere minutes into

its alien maze, their duplicates on Earth * ^

reduced to madness. But now Ed had

found the man who could succeed where

others failed: At Barker, a restless

adventurer. Will Barker^ fierce pride drive

him to enter this most alien challenge to

find the riddlels answer at the heart of the

lethal maze?

Cover art by James Gurney

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(In Canada: 0-445-20319-6/$4.50)

Foundation. ..Foundation and Empire. . . Second Foundation.
Foundation’s Edge. It’s a universal phenomenon forged from
the singular imagination of sf Master Isaac Asimov. With this
latest addition to his Hugo-\winning series, Asimov now
expands his universe once again with the most thrilling Foun-
dation novel yet. FOUNDATION AND EARTH.

The epic saga continues!

ULTIMATE WEAPON

31

Reginald Bretnor

THE ARCEVOALO

85

Lucius Shepard

FILL IT WITH REGULAR

103

Michael Shea

SHOR

T STORIES

OUR RESIDENT DJINN

6

James Tiptree, Jr.

THORN

51

Robert Holdstock

SAUCERY

67

Frederik Pohl

THE FELLOW TRAVELER

136

John Brunner'

THE BOY WHO PLAITED MANES

149

Nancy Springer

Dtp ART M

ENTS

BOOKS

24

Algis Budrys

HARLAN ELLISON’S WATCHING

78

Harlan Ellison

SCIENCE: The Relativity of Wrong

125

Isaac Asimov

CARTOONS: S, HARRIS (22), HENRY MARTIN (50), NURIT KARLIN (102)
COVER BY BARCLAY SHAW FOR *‘THE BOY WHO PLAITED MANES''

EDWARD L. FERMAN, Editor & Publisher ISAAC ASIMOV, Science Columnist

DALE FARRELL, Circulation Manager AUDREY FERMAN, Business Manager

ALOIS BUDRYS, Book Review Editor ANNE JORDAN, Managing tditor

Assistant Editors: MARGARET COOLEY, DAVID MICHAEL BUSKUS

The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction (ISSN: 0024-984X), Volume 71, No. 4, Whole No. 42S, Oct. 1986.
Published monthly by Mercury Press, Inc. at $1.75 per copy. Annual subscription $19.50; $23.50 outside of the U.S.
(Canadian subscribers: please remit in U.S. dollars or add 30%.) Postmaster: send form 3579 to Fantasy and Science
Fiction, Box 56 Cornwall, Conn. 06753. Publication office. Box 56, Cornwall, Conn. 06753. Second class postage paid
at Cornwall, Conn. 06753 and at additional mailing offices. Printed in U.S.A. Copyright ® 1986 by Mercury Press, Inc.
All rights, including translations into other languages, reserved. Submissions must be accompanied by stamped,
self-addressed envelope. The publisher assumes no responsibility for return of unsolicited manuscripts.

James Tiptree*s last story here was ''Good Nighty Sweethearts**
(March 1986). Here is something completely different, in which
the Devil makes a condolence call to the Heavenly City and
offers a most remarkable deal . . .

Our Resident Djinn

BY

JAMES TIPTREE, Jr.

W

V W hen God died, the Devil
survived him a while.

The obsequies were impressive,
and not unduly long. Out of respect
for his old Adversary, Satan ordered
that the more flamboyant fires of Hell
be banked, and the noisiest sinners
muffled; he also decreed a half-holiday
for senior staff — a purely arbitrary
usage of antiquity, since Hell has
neither night nor day.

As the last elegiac choirs of cheru-
bim faded through the empyrean, so
clear as to be heard even in Hell, Lu-
cifer felt an odd disquiet in his bra-
zen heart. It was almost as though
some unaccountable new responsi-
bility had fallen to him. Clearly, things
were entering a new epoch.

Might it not be fitting, now that it
was presumably possible, for him to
pay his last respects in person?

But the flight upward would be a

long one. He had come down ex-
press, but even-so, morn had changed
to noon, and noon to dewy eve, en
route. He shuddered, causing a small
thunderclap, as he recalled how his
once-snowy pinions had changed to
ebon batwings, his feet to taloned
hooves, and his bright angelic fea-
tures to the grim (but, he always
considered, distinguished) features
he now bore, as he fell. A long way.
. . . And he was older now.

Surely it would be only sensible to
have a medical checkup first?

He whistled up a posse of work-
goblins to scour the pits for viable
physicians, and leaned upon a for-
ward battlement of his dread castle
to wait.

High above the Purgatorial Plain,
the view always soothed him. Here
and there through the middle dis-
tance sparkled the flares of volcanic

6

Our Resident Djinn

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blowholes, from which fiery rivers of
blood and molten metal ran hissing
to the Sea of Torment. Charred bar-
racks and camps for the lower order
of fiends marked the ashy plain, while
behind all towered the black abut-
ments of the Mountains of Hell, each
with its special horror. And looming
above the center of the range, he had
had the fancy to install a great snow-
clad peak, where he could arrange
suitable punishments for those ex-
ceptional sinners who could endure
heat. Its topmost spires were lost in
the low-hanging gray clouds that
scudded perpetually, mockingly,
above the parching plain.

In the foreground of this spectac-
ular view yawned the Pit of Hell
proper, whose seven levels had been
besung by poets. From sentiment, Sa-
tan hadn't changed things there much
of recent centuries. Down below the
seventh level lay the fearful Gulf of
Silence. Not even he knew what was
in its deeps. Every now and then he
would cause some especially vocif-
erous evildoer to be flung down there,
and listen attentively to the long-
dwindling ululations. But none ever
returned to tell about it, nor did any-
thing else emerge.

Lucifer occasionally contemplated
devising some chain of bodies by
which the gulf might be plumbed,
but he had as usual been kept too busy
with the interminable adjudications
and squabblings of the hierarchy of
Hell.

Once, one of the modem breed of
scientists, condemned to a short stay
for excessive media exposure, had
said that it might be a black hole in
the making, since energy and matter
here conformed to other laws; but he
overestimated the Satanic attention
span, and was himself pitched in be-
fore he’d worked out half his theory.
Remembering this, Lucifer leaned far
out, to send his dark gaze into the
darker depths. Might this be a gate-
way through which some new phen-
omena appropriate to this new age
would come? But darkness met only
darkness, with no change so far as he
could tell. ... Or were there the faint-
est strange phosphorescent gleam-
ings, as of something in slow stir
deep down there? He stared his hard-
est, still unable to be sure.

And the doctors were now ar-
riving, a tatterdemalion band of
butchers-turned-surgeons, of pricked
pomposities and singed Feelgoods,
all yapped and nipped on by the
younger trolls. Lucifer turned and
raked them with his terrible orbs,
opening for the occasion his third
one, which sees only fact. He thus de-
tected one doctor whose qualifica-
tions were genuine — a sorry wight
who had come under ecclesiastical
displeasure for some forgotten crime,
such as administering anesthetic to
women in childbirth. When Satan ex-
plained what was wanted, this man
left off his groaning and agreed that a
checkup was a sound idea. But he

8

Fantasy & Science Fiction

held up the stumps that were all that
the Holy Office had left of his erring
hands.

‘Tou shall have them back — when
I return safely,” Satan told him; the
flare of desperate hope in the man’s
eyes made the goblins snicker.

“The heart would be your prob-
lem,” the doctor said. “But, er. Your
Majesty — do you have one?”

“I do,” snapped Satan. “Examine
it instanter!”

So instruments were described,
and devised by Hell’s smiths and arti-
sans, and the doctor went to work.
Although he had a little difficulty in
persuading the Lord of Hell to submit
to a stress test — several bystanding
demons were inadvertently inciner-
ated — everything proved out satis-
factorily, and soon his mighty patient
was pronounced fit for an extended
upward flight.

‘Tour respiratory-vascular systems
are as sound as a young tiger’s,” the
doctor told Satan. “But even so, I
cannot guarantee against the effects
of, er, psychic trauma. Stresses of, ah,
supernatural origin, such—”

“You take care of the flapping,
and I’ll take care of the flaps,” Satan
replied, and waved them all back to
their respective torments. Noting that
some of his higher-ranking subordi-
nates seemed to be evincing an undue
cheer, he gave them all a short but
pungent lecture on the folly of ambi-
tion in Hell. Then he strode to his
tower for takeoff, the imps he had

delegated to put up refreshments
scampering in his wake with the
pack.

Comfortably reassured and provi-
sioned, Lucifer launched himself up-
ward on his great black wings, and
was soon riding the massive thermals
of Hell, circling ever higher above his
domains. Only he knew which of the
tiny flecks of lesser darkness con-
tained the promise of true light
above.

As the smog thickened below him,
and the faint glow of the sky slowly
brightened around, he found himself
in a sphere where there seemed
neither up nor down, nor anything to
mark his way. The thermals faded
out. Disorienting; but his instincts
guided him true, and he knew that he
would soon emerge.

But as his powerful wingbeats car-
ried higher, he could not help but
wonder what his reception would be,
and whether all that he assumed was
so. That God was dead, or at least se-
riously disabled, he knew; if only be-
cause he had been able to lay hands,
or claws, upon the distraught mes-
senger. The poor celestial was so over-
come that he could only squeal help-
lessly as he was taken, and the Devil
himself had been so surprised that
instead of subjecting the messenger
to agonies sure to wring the truth
from him, he had contented himself
with jerking out a fistful of wing
feathers before he let him go, still
shrieking fiitilely for divine Help. By

Our Reskleiit Djmn

9

this, Satan was quite sure of the truth
of his message, for had his Opponent
yet lived, even a failed attempt on His
minion would have brought pyrotech-
nic displays of His displeasure.

But what else went on up there?

Odd things had happened before.
Take the whole business of the Son
and his fate. Flapping steadily, Satan
shook his head; the metaphysics of all
that had been too much for his prag-
matic mind. The Father of a virgin’s
son? The Crucifixion as a triumph?
And the whole Resurrection hoopla
—Nole me tangere, now-you-see-it-
now-you-don’t — Either you’re re-
surrected or you’re not, was Satan’s
opinion.

He respected the man Jesus as a
sincere fanatic — he himself had made
a tiring, good-faith effort at the Temp-
tation; but the rest was all too much.
To Satan, it smelled of the devices
graybeards will use to conceal their
impotence. Was something more in
this line going on up there? Would he
arrive to find some cockamamy Rein-
carnation, perhaps, in league with a
borrowed diety? That Vishnu chap,
for instance, had some vitality left.
Omniscience can change to nulli-
science, or omnisenility; he hoped he
wasn’t spending all this effort to meet
with some metaphysical rodomon-
tade. Almost, he turned back.

But then the sky cleared abruptly,
and his misgivings vanished as he saw
a familiar marker. He was passing it
from below this time, but he knew

what it read: ALL HOPE ABANDON
YE WHO ENTER HERE. It was about
when he fell past this that the last of
his halo had gone skittering away
lightless in a scorching blast from
Hell. Death, what a day that had been!

Now he took a quick scan about,
just to make sure that all was in
order, and no guardians who hadn’t
got the Word were there to contend
his way. All clear.

He continued mounting upward
under the cool sun of Heaven. It
beamed from the bluest of blue skies,
set with tiny pearled clouds. Far be-
low, a faint smudge concealed his
own immense dominions, but no sul-
furic scent of them reached here to
comfort his nose. How quickly he
had come! Was he much stronger
than he’d believed, or had Space itself
shrunk? Who could say.?

And yes, high under the celestial
vault, he could now make out a shin-
ing, a thickening island of something
more than cloud. Why, Heaven itself
was in view — he had already come
halfway! It was definitely time for a
snack.

A little cloudlet was passing him.
'*Like to like in the empty air,"' he
told it. ""We Lord of Matter desires a
chair." A gesture, and the thing con-
densed gratifyingly into a sumptuous
airborne couch. Things had changed,
ail right, he told himself. No simple
black spell would function here if his
Enemy still lived.

He found that the imps had packed

10

Fantasy & Science Fiction

a proper lunch, for once. A hearty
sandwich of broiled liars’ tongues
(in which one of the smallest imps
seemed to have become entrapped,
so that he had to pluck it out and
fling it away screeching. Little canni-
bals!) And a flask of raped virgins’
tears, yes — and some pickled bikers’
parts, a nice contemporary touch. He
must remember to commend them
on his return, he thought, munching
pleasurably. Perhaps they’d like a
plump politician all to themselves to
torment? Gratitude was, of course,
unheard of in Hell; but a good admin-
istrator knows how to keep the help
functioning.

Lifting the flask of tears, he re-
flected that he had indeed passed his
point of no return: it was the sight of
the Heavenly City that marked the
limits of his banishment. Well, he
would see it again now, the place he
had so nearly come to rule, and where
he had refused to serve. Not for an
instant had he regretted his choice;
but now an odd melancholy, almost a
nostalgia, stole into his mood.

Away with it! He must be growing
chilled; he’d forgotten how blessed
cold it was up here, "'Fire! Your prince
commands you, glow! My resting
place alluming. Come warm me for
an hour or so — but bum without
consuming^ And at his cabalistic
sign, a border of flame like Elmo’s
Fire sprang out around the couch and
himself, creating a cozy little inferno.

He finished his repast in a cheerier

mood, then rose and grandly stretched
his fiery form. As he turned, he no-
ticed that he’d left quite a mess; a
wave of the hand abolished it. No
need to act like an ore! And with a
mighty wing buffet to the air, he was
on his way upward again, his eyes on
the growing splendor above.

In what seemed a very short time,
the flame-edged shadow of his dark
wings fell upon the drawbridge lead-
ing to the Gates of the City. The
bridge was down; the great gates
stood ajar. No one was in sight.

As he hovered in for landing, a
figure whom he recognized as Peter
rose sleepily from the flowery greens-
ward beside the Gates.

“Avast!” cried Peter, rubbing his
eyes. “Away with ye, black scum!
What do ye here? — Oh, sorry,” Peter
interrupted himself. “For a moment I
f-forgot.” And the poor Saint looked
so woebegone that Satan checked his
retort.

“Well, so you’ve come, too — you
might as well come in.” But when Pet-
er went to push the Gates wider, the
task seemed so far beyond his strength
that Lucifer gave him a hand, being
careful not to scorch the beautiful
pearl work.

“Did you not receive my condo-
lences?” he asked.

“Oh yes — I meant to tell you. We
did appreciate your note. And the
lovely wrought flowers. Of course
the wreath was a little warm” — here
Peter glanced at a burn mark on his

Our Resident Djinn

11

palm — “we had to quench it a little
first. But it’s nice to know folks stick
together at times like these.’’

The Devil chuckled deep in his
throat. “Just thought I’d come up and
see how you all were fixed.’’ Then, as
the full view of the Heavenly City
opened to him, he halted.

“My word! It — it certainly has
held up well! You’ve done a splendid
job of maintenance; can’t have been
easy. . . . It’s been so long; but don’t I
see a few new features? Additions and
enhancements?’’

“Oh yes.” Peter revived a bit. “One
must keep up with the centuries; you
know. And we get so many fine artists
up here. Although, I must confess,
some of the very recent stuff — Ah
well. I’m no art critic.”

“1 thought I recognized that Cal-
der.” Satan pointed to a vast lumi-
nous mobile. “But that one, frankly
— ” He indicated a giant cow’s skull
against a blue sky.

“An original O’Keefe,” Peter said,
a trifle smugly. “She went right into
production. . . . Would you care to
have me show you about?”

“I would indeed,” Satan replied.
“But where are all your people? I
should have thought you’d be quite
crowded with the Blessed by now.”

“Oh, everyone’s gone for the day.
Uriel — he’s so practical — he de-
cided they had to do something to lift
the atmosphere. So he and Rafe and
the rest organized a picnic excursion
to the Elysian Fields. Some of the old

shades can still talk a bit, you know.
It’s very interesting. So they’ve all
gone — that is, the ones who still
have enough individuality left.”

“Individuality? How do you mean?”

“Don’t you find that? Oh well, it’s
that so many of ours seem to just melt
away into grand abstraction, after a
time. I expect it’s the pure air, or
something. And with all that singing,
too. Don’t yours? In an, ah, reverse
sense, as it were?”

“No, I can’t say they do. Mine stay
all too identifiable. Although, now
that you mention it, I do seem to have
noticed a rather shapeless vortex de-
veloping around one or two of my
chaps. Fellow named Hinckel, or Hit-
tie. Or was it Nickerson? Or Fail-
well?”

Peter nodded. “That’s how it starts.
And then more and more get sucked
in till you get a kind of critical mass,
and blooie! — there’s nothing left
but* radiance.”

“In this case it’d be more like a
bad smell, I imagine,” Lucifer com-
mented. “But seriously, perhaps we
have less merging because they’re so
many different ways to sin, but only
one way to, ah, enter here?”

“That could be it!” exclaimed Pet-
er; he seemed quite happy now. Peter
loved a good theological argument,
Satan remembered. “Although it has
been said that evil is monotone. But,
come, I must show you the new son
et lumiere. I never can pronounce
that right. It’s all computerized,” he

12

Fantasy & Science Fiction

added with shy pride. “And that’s our
sports palace”

They were strolling by an impres-
sive amphitheater. Satan could see
the scoreboard rising above the
stands, but the format puzzled him—
it seemed to show nothing but win-
ners.

“Oh, it wouldn’t do to have peo-
ple lose,’’ Peter told him. “The aim is
to achieve a perfect draw at the high-
est possible score. You’d be surprised
what a thrilling game we have, when
each team has to help the other avoid
a win.’’

“I would indeed,’’ Lucifer agreed
politely. And then they fell silent, for
they were entering the Avenue of the
Blessed, the grand colonnade from
which risen spirits had their first
view of the Divine Radiance. It was
still radiant, and as they proceeded
along, Lucifer was quite touched to
see that the old barbaric Throne was
still quite visible under the Renais-
sance splendors. Despite that fore-
knowledge, it gave him a jolt when he
raised his gaze and perceived that
Throne and dais were completely
empty.

“Watch.’’ Peter whistled, and a
passive dove alighted on his hand.
The Saint pressed what seemed to be
a small set of buttons on the dove’s
breast. At once the radiance increased
ten fold, in a great upspringing fan-
work of colored lights, which seemed
to elevate dais and all into a sunrise
of coruscating brilliance, wheeling

and changing as they watched, until
the mind was quite bewildered. At
the same time, music played, now
sinking to a murmur, now rising in
crescendo — a totally stunning ef-
fect.

“Marvelous!’’ the Devil murmured.
“Bravo!’’

“If only you could have seen it
when — when — ’’ But the poor Saint
broke down weeping and could not
continue. Satan turned away consid-
erately, and found his own throat
constricted. The nostalgia that had
touched him earlier was back again,
stronger than before. It all seemed
such a shame. Why couldn’t things
have gone on for a respectable eter-
nity?

Instead of asking the questions he
had intended, having to do with the
details of the Lord’s demise and the
complications of the Trinity, he found
himself saying consolingly, “There,
there, old friend. Always remember
what a splendid career was his, start-
ing from a simple nomadic desert
diety.’’

“Y-yes, that’s t-true,’’ sobbed Pet-
er. “You must forgive me.’’ It’s just
that — Ohhh.’’ And he wept again
briefly.

“No need,’’ said the Devil gruffly.
“I assure you, I sympathize” Then,
seeing that the old Saint seemed quite
disoriented, he asked in gentle tones,
“But tell me, what are you going to
do with all of this?’’

Peter gulped and blew his nose.

Our Resident Djinn

13

“Well, at first we were just intending
to maintain it as it is. After all, there is
always the p-possibility that — the p-
p-possibility — forgive me. Yes, main-
tain it as it is But since then some

of the higher-ups have had word that
the space is going to be needed. We
don’t know what for. But after all, we
have had the lion’s share, so to speak,
so perhaps it’s fair. So we’re having a
kind of, a greensward sale, you might
say.

“The Allah people have a bid in
for the sound system — they do a lot
of praying, and it seems they’re hav-
ing quite a revival.’’ He nodded. “Yes,
and they want some of the plantings,
too. They are quite fond of flowers, I
believe. And there’s a Shinto sect
who’s asking foi time; I think they’re
interested in the topiary. And of
course the pavements; thaVs no prob-
lem. But all the rest — and the — Oh,
1 don’t know what we shall do; it all
seems so horrid — and some of the
Cherubim are quite incapable of main-
taining themselves in any other e-
environment — ’’ And he all but broke
down again.

Satan noticed that, moved by the
old Saint’s grief, he had absently claw-
ed a divot from the flowery turf. He
replaced it carefully, considering.

“It does seem a dreadful shame to
have it all broken up,’’ he said. “Let’s
see; I have some figures in my head.

. . . But how much is a cubit, in met-
ric? No matter — I know it’ll do.
Look, my old friend, it happens that I

have a lot of spare room in my fore
grounds. Not that there’s been any
shortage of sinners. But do you recall
the Doctrine of Infant Damnation?
Well, I had to set up a vast sort of
nursery area for that — and then,
thank, ah, Fate, they discontinued it.
So I have some very nice real estate;
quite vacant, not too hot at all, and
the air has nothing wrong with it that
a good set of scrubbers wouldn’t fix.
But the thing is, what with the cur-
rent cost of energy and the ridicu-
lously inflated prices of temptations,
my cash-flow position isn’t too good.
I couldn’t begin to pay you—’’

“Oh my goodness,’’ Peter inter-
rupted him. “The price isn’t the prob-
lem at all. Why, we’d give it to some-
one who’d keep it all together!’’

“Well, now, that was what I rather
hoped. And I do have an abundance
of labor, if they can keep their smudgy
little hands where they belong.’’ For
an instant he looked quite fierce, and
his tail lashed. “What I’m getting at is
that if your people agreed, we could
ship this whole thing down and set it
up very attactively, just as if it’d never
been moved. Certain elements of the
view outside might not be quite right;
but don’t I recall something about
the Blessed regaling themselves by
looking over the wall and watching
the damned fry, wasn’t it?’’

“Oh yes, in primitive times — very
primitive,’’ said the Saint hastily. “But
this is really splendid! Do you actual-
ly mean you would? I’m just sure the

14

Fantasy & Science Fiction

Powers and Dominions would be de-
lighted. They’ve been quite broken
up about the sale. Oh, I can’t tell you
what this would mean!”

“And you could all come down for
long visits, and check on our mainte-
nance.”

‘‘Oh yes — Oh, I’m quite sure—”

“Of course,’’ said the Devil
thoughtfully, ‘‘there may be some of
the newly Blessed who will be a bit
confused by finding themselves head-
ed downward, to Hell.”

‘‘You don’t mean those evangelic
chaps? We aren’t expecting them.”

‘‘Yom may not be,” said Satan with
relish. “No, I was thinking of the
people you normally get. Perhaps if
we made it clear that it’s more of a
museum — no, that wouldn’t do,
either. Oh well, you’ll think of some-
thing.”

“Yes, I’m sure we will.” Peter was
almost happy now.

“By the way,” Satan inquired as
they turned away and the far-ofif light
show rolled to its finale, “what’s that
curious area near the Throne, where
the light seems so — so — ”

“I know what you mean,” Peter
responded. “Don’t you recall? That
was the Holy Virgin’s place. And the
Magdalen’s. But things there have
been undergoing some very puzzling
changes lately. I mean, they had been,
before — b-before — ”

“There, there,” said Satan. “Don’t
tear yourself apart, old comrade. After
all, we’ve got one major problem

solved. And I have a hunch what
might be going on in the ladies’ quar-
ter — we’ve had a few problems our-
selves. . . .

“But to return to practical mat-
ters: Let’s see, ” he added thought-
fully. “If all goes well, my boys could
start as soon as you give the word.
But don’t you think someone should
stay on permanent duty to handle
Admissions? And have you decided
what to do about the Book — or have
you automated that, too?”

“Oh goodness, no!” said the old
Saint emphatically. “Or rather, yes!
—We tried it. Now that almost every-
one has numbers, it seemed quite
promising. So we had one installed
for testing — just a few million names
at first. And there were a few little—
is ‘bugs’ the word? — to unravel,
things that would have been simple
for any mere Angel. Such as a person
having more than one social security
number. Would you believe we found
one Saintly lady with seventeen? She’d
been feeding half a township. And,
conversely, numbers that were at-
tached to more than one name-
several writers and, ah, show-biz
people had dozens. But we soon got
those ironed out. And in the process
we discovered that quite a number of
our very youngest people seemed to
be most adept at such devices. So we
organized them into record-keeping
squads. They did seem to be delighted
to have an alternative to making mu-
sic, you know. And things were won-

Our Residenl Dfinn

15

dcrfully restful for me — for a while.”
He smiled reminiscently.

“But I gather something hap-
pened?”

“Well, yes We began receiving

the most surprising people. There
seemed to be a rash of petty disasters
on Earth, theater fires and so on; and
I recall we got the entire comple-
ment of the Take wara Japanese girls*
volleyball team. That was no great
problem ~ but then we received the
whole staff and inmates of a women’s
correctional facility near Tehachapi,
California. And then — are you famil-
iar with an institution called the Pen-
tagon, in the United States?”

“I am.” Satan licked his lips.

“Well, it seemed that our, ah, com-
puter had somehow made contact
with its personnel records, as well as
other data, and the most extraordi-
nary things began to go wrong. It
turned out that our young geniuses
had grown a bit, ah, restless. And the
next thing we knew, one of our most
revered archdioceses was under con-
gressional investigation. . . He
sighed. “In the end we had to scrub
the whole thing and go back to our
old hand methods.”

“I see,” nodded Satan. “Well, I’m
glad to know all this. I believe it
might account for a period of confu-
sion that plagued us, too.”

“You did? Oh dear — yes, that
might well be it. Our sincere apolo-
gies. . . . And now — ” he waved to-
ward the open Gates — “here come

our returning picnickers. I do hope
the outing cheered them!”

A radiant procession of the Blessed
was advancing across the outer bridge,
guided by corps of Seraphim and Ce-
lestial Girl Scouts. Behind them could
be glimpsed a wild confusion of wings,
as swan boats, riding griffins, hippo-
griffs, and other workcreatures of the
air disentangled themselves from their
Heavenly harnesses. In the rear were
the Archangelic Presences, Michael
in the lead.

“They do seem a little more nor-
mal,” Peter observed as the strum of
many harps began to tingle the air.
“Now to communicate your wonder-
ful offer. Oy! Sirs! Lord Michael, look
who’s here!”

The great Angel turned his face
toward them, and they saw his fea-
tures change as he recognized the
visitor.

“He came to pay his respects,”
Peter Explained hastily, “and
he’s thought of the most marvelous
plan — ”

“I have heard of your plans be-
fore, sir,” commented Michael stiffly.
But the others gathered round, pre-
pared to listen.

“It concerns the disposition of
your — of all this wonderful crea-
tion,” Satan gestured. “Peter tells me
you’re thinking of letting it go piece-
meal, and the thought gives me much
pain.” As he went on to explain his
proposal, he found that he felt quite
strongly about it — so much so that

16

Fantasy & Science Fiction

he thought of another argument. “And
after all/’ he wound up, “think of
your future incoming clientele! They
can’t just be left to wander between
worlds, can they? Who knows where
they’d end up?’’

“That’s a point, Mike,’’ Raphael
said. “I hear that Valhalla is resuming
limited operations.’’

“H’mm,’’ said the great Archangel,
no longer so hostile. “But still, what,
when they enter and find the Throne
—as it is?’’

“Well, I do have a suggestion there,
though it’s more in my line than
yours. Some of my younger succubi
are splendid girls; if I clean them up,
they’d look really quite acceptable. I
could have the best of them put it
about among the Blessed, while they
waited outside, of course, that He is
on a difficult Creation job and got
tied up. Such rumors spread fast and
would satisfy people. In fact, they’d
be pleased with a little inside infor-
mation, as it were. It’s the not know-
ing. And afterward — well, maybe
most of them will go abstract, or
whatever. And perhaps some of your
artists could contrive something with
that son et lumi^re dingus—’’

Some of the younger angels gasped
at that, and Michael said haughtily,
“As you say, that is more in your line
than ours,’* But Uriel, the practical
one, nodded. “Really, Mike, this might
allay a great deal of natural anxiety.’’

“And perhaps — ’’ murmured Ga-
briel, fingering his Trump, “I know I

sound foolishly optimistic, but, well,
perhaps. A Return? And then think
how awful it would be if we’d—’’

Michael nodded again, and sighed
a grave assent. And so it was decided.

As they walked toward the Gates,
Lucifer was reminded of something.
“I couldn’t help noticing,’’ he re-
marked, shooting a glance at Peter,
“that the area outside is remarkably
lush and pretty. But the ground be-
yond your walls in my domain would
be, I fear, quite dark and bare at best.
Not favorable for photosynthesis. So
what do you say if I order up a pla-
toon of firc-elementals — they’ve been
shockingly idle lately — and have them
station themselves along the outer
crevices in the wall? That would give
quite enough light to grow things,
especially if someone went round
now and again to remind them force-
fully of their duties. They haven’t a
brain among them, and it would be a
nice, suitable job. With a very attrac-
tive end result. What do you say? Of
course I wouldn’t think of stationing
any of my personnel in actual contact
without your assent.’’

“Nicely put,’’ remarked Raphael.
“I think it’s a very good idea; we cer-
tainly don’t want the City just sitting
on a blasted plain.’’

“So then we’re agreed!’’ exclaimed
Satan, feeling remarkably elated. He
stepped to the Gate, inhaling mighti-
ly. “I’ll have the first work crews
up here before you know it. And of
course I’ll be with them to oversee

Our Resident Djmn

17

everything. ... Do I take it that you’d
like the walls carried down first, so
there'll be an enclosure all set up and
waiting for — for the more delicate
artifacts? 1 imagine you can guard the
perimeter yourselves for the short
time required?”

‘‘Oh, we will!” chorused a Sera-
phic band.

‘‘How do you plan to move the
whole walls?” Uriel asked curiously.

“Work-dragons. Under proper
control, they can cut out a portion at
a time as neat as you please, and fly it
down. Of course, getting it back up
here would be a different story.” Sa-
tan chuckled genially. “But even so,
we could probably come up with
something,” he added as he saw a
shadow cross a couple of Angelic vis-
ages. “Well!” He spread his huge black
wings, stepping to the sill. “D’you
know, it feels fine to have a project
again! Maybe I could persuade you all
to help, by selecting and gathering
your favorite flower seeds, for in-
stance.” Daring, he added confiding-
ly, “You know what they say about
the Devil and idle hands!”

It seemed to go down well; sever-
al older Angels chuckled. And with a
“Farewell, all!” he was off in a great
leap through the pearly little clouds.

“I hope we’ve done the right
thing,” said Gabe, the worrier.

“Think of the alternative,” Uriel
observed, They all sighed. And as
they turned to go back in, Raphael
was heard to mutter, “All those Mos-

lems mucking about with my Exbury
azaleas. ... I just hope the dragons
are careful.”

“They will be, I’m sure,” said
Peter.

Lucifer’s great leap outward car-
ried him to a part of the sky where
the cloudlets were few. He was feel-
ing remarkably well, and, reminding
himself that the way home was all
downhill, he decided it would be
pleasant to make one last flight up-
ward, to where he could view all
Heaven from above. His Heaven now,
he reflected as he soared. Had he
been cra 2 >\ offering them all free re-
fuge in his domain? There would be
problems, of course. . . . Really, the
times were growing so strange that
he could scarcely trust his own mo-
tives. . . . But surely some solid evil
would come of this. His old instincts
for mischief were still strong.

“If you can’t beat ’em and you
can’t join ’em — outlive ’em!” He
chuckled in his old, nasty way, melt-
ing a small rainbow that had come
too near.

He mounted steadily, until, seeing
a solid-looking anvil cloud above, he
zoomed up over it and landed on the
rim.

Ah yes — indeed a superb vista!
The glorious golden glitter of the
thoroughfares, the jeweled parks, and
the great profusion of splendid man-
sions, from large to small, in the resi-
dential sections.

18

Fantasy & Science Fiction

He lost himself for a moment in
the sheer magic of contemplation.
Then he began recasting his earlier
estimates, to make sure everything
could be suitably installed, with
enough terrain to set it off becoming-
ly. He’d have to accommodate wait-
ers at the Gate, too — Peter had told
him there was quite a queue in times
of war or natural disasters. . . . The
idea of poor old Peter handling a
computer bank distracted him by its
comicality. But there was a warning
in it, too, in case he himself were
ever tempted to automate.

Yes, there would be room enough
and to spare, he concluded. He owed
that to that mathematician-wallah
who had calculated and impressed
exponential birthrates on him. He
had cleared his infant-reception area
on the fellow’s figures. . . . Maybe
he’d have him sent a cup of water, no
matter what his staff thought of that.
They’d soon see his trip to Heaven
hadn’t made him soft!

“What are you doing in my nurs-
ery?’’

The clear little voice behind him
startled him so that he had to shoot
out his pinions for balance as he
whirled.

A naked girl-child stood staring at
him, quite incuriously, Satan saw.
What was this, one of the Blessed
who’d lost her way home?

But no; she wore no halo — and
needed none, for she was radiant all
over. And the cold serenity of her

smile, the icy chill in her light gray
eyes, told him that he looked on
something quite other than any mere
celestial spirit.

‘You’ll have to speak louder,’’ the
child said, although he hadn’t spok-
en. “I’m nearly deaf. . . . You’re one of
my old dreams, aren’t you? Have they
told you you’ll have to move? All this
is to be mine soon, you know. As
soon as I’m completely deaf — and a
few other things.’’

“My apologies; I didn’t mean to
intrude.’’ Lucifer fairly shouted, so
that the cloud began to resonate wor-
ryingly. “This is your nursery, you
say?’’

“Yes. But I’m growing very fast
now. Am I not. Mother?’’ She glanced
back at a figure so veiled and still that
Satan had taken it for a peak of cloud.

“Yes, child, you are. But I’ve told
you, you have to be deaf, yes, but
there are also other things before
you’re ready.’’

The child was studying Satan.

“I know who you are,’’ she said.
“And who you’re going to be. You’re
Murphy!’’ She giggled.

It was long since the Lord of Evil
had been addressed so lightly. Yet he
was sure that this was no supernal
innocence that mocked him. Rather,
it must be something new in the line
of demons. Another Kali? He shivered
slightly, his tail, usually so jaunty,
thrust out at an awkward, nervous
angle. Kali had been relatively no-
thing compared to this, he felt.

Our Resident Djinn

19

“And I know what you’re planning
to do with that place.” She pointed
down. “That’s neat. . . . But Mother
says 1 must get over liking neatness,
too. I bet you don’t know who I am.”

“No, 1 certainly don’t,” said Lucif-
er. “But I gather you are — or think
you are — one of the people for
whom space is being made.”

“Not one of the people,” she gig-
gled, then was suddenly and coldly
mature. “I am the people. Tell him,
Mother.”

“Men used to call her ‘Physis,’ the
veiled woman said. “Now it’s ‘Na-
ture.’ ‘Mother Nature.’ ” She uttered
a single-syllable laugh as cold as a
gull’s cry. “What it will be in the fu-
ture, we neither know nor care. . . .
She made you all, you see. In her
dreams. It is when she can create
consciously that she will take over ”

The girl, abruptly a child again,
made a moue. “All I’ve done so far is
sleep and dream and grow,” she said.
“It’s very boring."

Her eyes took on a look so pale
and fixed that she appeared not only
deaf but blind. As she scufifed her foot
in discontent, a rift opened in the
cloud so near that Satan involuntarily
put out an arm to steady her, forget-
ting the heat of his flesh. Her little
breast came against him as she straight-
ened. He was appalled to feel a cold-
ness quenching his very bones — and
something else, too.

“You — she has no heartbeat!” he
exclaimed to the veiled figure.

“Naturally. She has no heart,” the
woman replied indifferently. “Only
her dreams have hearts.”

Satan shook his head, massaging
his chilled shoulder. “Evidently things
will be very different in the new
order to come,” he managed to say.

The figure nodded silently. Satan
felt he was getting into very deep wa-
ters, but he persisted still. This might
be his only chance.

“And may one inquire your name,
too, ma’am?”

“I haven’t a suitable one. Once
men called my favor Tyche. Now I am
called Chance. I, too, am powerful,
but only in my dreams. I dreamt her.
Perhaps later 1 will dream again.” she
stirred. “And now it is time for you to

go"

“Of course.” Satan bowed his most
courtly bow, making his tail curl nor-
mally. “I count myself privileged. But
may I inquire about one more hap-
pening that just could concern you?”

The woman inclined her veiled
head.

“In my, ah, humble realms there is
a pit so deep that none know what
lies within it. Yet recently I seemed
to observe a stirring in its depths. Is it
possible that one of your new order
is arriving in my small province, too?”

“I didn’t dream that. Mother, I
know,” the child exclaimed.

“Arriving, you ask?” said the wom-
an. “Manifesting would be the better
word, since if this is what I think, he
is everywhere. Yes, it is possible that

20

Fantasy & Science Fiction

this is some incarnation of Entropy,
my lord and spouse. He has no need
of incarnation, since he is immanent
—but your realms would be a fitting
place for it, if this be his whim.”

‘‘1 see. . . . And, and could you tell
me what 1 am to expect from him, if it
be he?”

‘‘Nothing new,” she returned cold-
ly. Satan didn't like the sound of this.

‘‘It is possible that he will wish to
make use of my — my space as well?”

‘‘Oh no. Mother!” the child inter-
rupted. ‘‘Why, I’d thought of moving
your place to Earth, remember. Moth-
er?”

‘‘And you had best remember to
think twice about that plan, if you
wish any toys left to play with,” her
mother returned.

“But,” said Satan desperately,
“won’t Your Majesty have need of
some place and services like mine?
Some source of final punishment for
those who break your laws or com-
mit crimes?”

“Oh, 1 made all that much too
complicated last time,” the child told
him seriously. “When I have power, it
will all be simple. My laws will be
unbreakable. And there will be only
one crime, for which everyone must
pay.”

“By my tail,” exclaimed SaCan, im-
pressed by the small being’s air of
command. “Unbreakable laws! That
will be certainly a novelty. And only
one crime, of which everyone is guilty.
What could that be?”

“Bring born.” The child’s icy eyes
turned full on him, freezingly. Behind
her the tall figure stirred significant-
ly, reminding him that he had been
dismissed.

He bowed again, but received no
acknowledgement. The girl was mur-
muring something to her mother, who
listened attentively. His very pres-
ence had been forgotten.

As he opened his wings and step-
ped off the cloud edge, he thought he
heard the child say, “Oh, I do hope
that’s Daddy coming! So I can meet
him. at last.”

To which her mother seemed to
reply, “You should get on well to-
gether, child. You have so much of
him in you.” Her tone was the bleak-
est Satan had ever heard.

To get away from them, he made a
great flap that bent the air to his pin-
ions, and went hurtling, almost with
his former speed, toward the famil-
iar comfort below. Never had Hell
seemed so truly homelike.

Ah, he thought, checking his speed
slightly to avoid vaporizing the
clouds, it would be good to smell real
Hellfire again. An^l as for whatever
might be coming, or thinking of com-
ing, out of that doubly damned pit,
well, he’d see how it liked a few loads
of lava. Better yet, divert a reliable
volcano. And meanwhile he had his
Heavenly affairs to see to.

As the first trace of brimstone
reached his nostrils, his heart warmed,
though his shoulder still ached.

Our Resident Djinn

21

Thinking of which, it occurred to
him that he had come through this
whole effort in fine shape; that doc-
tor was evidently a capable man. Why
not surprise everyone and give him
back his hands? He was no lackey of
Rome, after all. Let’s see — what was
a suitable catch? Oh yes — and whirl-
ing downward in all his dark splen-
dor, he muttered to himself: "Hands
in the sands of time, Pat and putter
and play; Hands that committed crime
^Return to him today . "

There, that would teach those
smart-ass goblins to be so sure they
knew what the boss was going to do.
And if any of them made a mistake of
thinking that Heaven had softened
him up, they’d soon learn their error.

Whether or not those frigid, Grec-
ophile, oneiromaniacs up there spoke
truth, if they had indeed created him
and all this cycle, Hell was still his,
and his powers were still real.

. . . While they lasted, a cold echo
wailed.

**How would you like it — being the wee folks* wee folks?**

22

Fantasy & Science Fiction

Leaves no spine untingled.

Audacious dark fantasy at the cutting edge of tomorrow’s speculative fiction.
A brave new world of imagination as only Peter Straub. Robert Bloch,
Whitley Strieber. Ramsey Campbell. Clive Barker, and over a dozen other
master craftsmen could explore it All new, all never-before-published short
stories and novellas, edited with an introduction by Dennis Etchison.

DOUBLEDAY

Godhody, Theodore Sturgeon, Donald I.
Fine, Inc. SI 4.95

Santiago, Mike Resnick, Tor, S3. 50

Science Fiction and Fantasy Book Reinew
Index, 1980 1984, H.W. Hall, Ed., Gale
Research Company, SI 60.00

The late Theodore Sturgeon was a
man who got under your skin. He had
various ways of doing it. When I was a
lad on the farm, for instance, it seemed
to me the author of “Microcosmic
God” was an inordinately ingenious
fellow, and that the author of such
stories as “Largo”* had a astonishing,
not to say heart-stopping, insight into
the pangs of love. I thought “Killdoz-
er” a compelling piece of suspense
writing. And over the years, from
time to time there’d be a new Stur-
geon story that seemed to play upon
a very special string ... a story which,
likely as not, would send me off to
stare out windows, or muse upon the
nighted stafs, to ask myself how—
except by some superhuman means
—he could know so much about me.

Well, things happened. I got older,
and he did not. From time to time,
our paths crossed, and although it
was always pleasant, it was never free
from strain. He kept discovering
things that everyone knew all about,
and he’d insist on discussing them. I’d
meet a plane with him on it, and he’d

*lt 's an obscure story, from a ZiffDatis
pulp, probably Fantastic Adventures. / read
it at the right age.

24

Fantasy & Science Fiction

get ofif with a whole entourage of in-
stant friends he’d acquired on the
flight. Meanwhile, I was a good guy,
too, but nobody was forming clubs
around me. And the son of a bitch
could play twelve-string guitar.

He was not, in truth, a man free of
faults or aggravating traits. I would not
do him the disservice of painting him
more gilt than he was. But he was
uncommon, as human beings go, and
he tried to do humanity various ser-
vices. Perhaps this arose out of the
conviction that it was a duty particu-
larly incumbent on those whom hu-
manity had systematically maltreated
during their early days and might not
yet be quits with. Sturgeon had it
rough as a kid; rough enough to pro-
duce psychosis in most people. Like a
few such victims, he did not turn
criminal, but rather into that un-
named sort which is actively uncrim-
inal. A saint? Oh, no. But in another
country’ they used to say of Willie
Mays, and Babe Ruth, and a few oth-
ers, that they belonged in a higher
league. As people go, the same was
true of Sturgeon, and if he would only
show the good grace to go quietly,
we could all relax a little.

In the late years of his career, he
wrote very little that was published.
And in truth if he were still alive,
Godbody would still be unpublished.
It’s not finished, although the book
contains an ending. You can see the
places where it’s not finished. He
was, as he sometimes did all his life.

and as he invariably did late in it, bit-
ing off more than he could chew.
What he couldn’t bring himself to do
was release it anyway, into a world
where many of us are heartily sick of
writing that rounds off because it
isn’t about anything that would make
roundness difficult to achieve.

Godbody is a very short book, in
two senses. One, it only has about

*This is meant poetically . Literally, ! mean
in another context. ’ but that is not ex-
actly the feeling / meant to convey. I
make this explication because people from
Mensa read this column. (A few months
ago, I did a little jape about Mensa, an
organization to which / stopped paying
my dues a couple of years ago. Sure
enough, I got several letters carefully ex-
plaining what Mensa is, literally, and, c/o
F&SF, some recruiting literature for this
organization of unusually perceptive per-
sons.)

Let me, while I'm at it, explain how I
got into Mensa. Theodore R. Cogsu^ll,
Brig. Gen., U.S. Army Podiatric Corps,
(Ret.), as well as Vicar-General of the
Order of Saint Asimov the Mute, one day
recommended me for membership, I dis-
covered upon opening my mail. Grinning
like a fool, anticipating that Cogswell
had afoot some scheme parallel to, for
instance, his Institute for Twenty-First
Century Studies, I wrote the answers on
my cuff and took the necessary test. In
due course, I received my membership.
"O.K., Cogswell, " / ivrote my old friend,
I'm in. What’s the joke going to be and
what are my instructions?" “/ don't un-
derstand this, " my old friend wrote back.
‘7 never recommend anyone / think will
make it. "

25

1 40 pages of story text. Two, you can
read it easily in one sitting, which is
probably inescapable anyway. It will
grab you, hold you, and conduct you
through a scries of confrontations
with thought. You will come out the
other side a different person — or,
rather, you will have discovered things
that were always there in you, proba-
bly much to your surprise.

It is interesting to me that Donald
I. Fine, Inc., has done so many good
things with this book. They didn't set
it in extra-large type or design the
pages to make it look like more than
the good, slim volume it is. By today's
standards, too, the price is right. And
they have given it an Afterword by
Stephen R. Donaldson, which turns
out to be a perfectly reasonable, co-
gent and valuable way in which to
add words to the book.

The biggest thing they did right
was make Robert Silverberg an acqui-
sitions editor for them. (Search the
book thoroughly enough, and you
will find that they have given him his
own imprint, and that there's obvi-
ously some sort of promotional effort
afoot in connection with it, but it's a
remarkably shy one.) It was Silver-
berg who brought this book to Fine,
and it was he who also obtained a
lengthy and excellent Robert A. Hein-
lein introduction for it.

Now, the thing is that Heinlein is
certainly the most prominent SF writ-
er to have written at least one novel
treating with the basic impulse to-

2 (

ward religion, but he has been joined
in that respect by Arthur C. Clarke,
Frank Herbert, Damon Knight, and
many others from the universe of
American-originated newsstand-bome
SF. If we begin reaching out toward
H.G. Wells, Jack London, Olaf Sta-
pledon and, of course, C.S. Lewis, we
begin piling up quite a library. Then
there is the quiet Roman Catholicism
of Gene Wolfe, whose writing does
not so much speak of religion as it
does follow a developed morality,
and at that point I begin to realize
two things: One, that SF must be by
its nature profoundly religious in
some sense, and, two, that it is not
enough to simply discover this large
topic. It is necessary to treat with it,
and, it being large, to treat with it
patiently and bit by bit as opportunity
arises. The opportunity we have here
is to discuss messianism, and in that
respect Godhody stands besides
Knight's The Man in The Tree and
Heinlein’s Stranger in A Strange
Land, for just two. (Any more metic-
ulous critic could find scores. I'm
sure. )

Messianism deals with humanity's
impulse to personify ... to take its
philosophy, or its faith, or its ecstasy,
from some singled-out individual, in
preference to performing some ab-
stract interaction with a series of in-
tellectual propositions. A messiah is a
terrible figure; he — I am unaware of
any female messiahs — says that the
world is governed by principles you

Fantasy & Science Fiction

have been ignoring; he stands before
you and works miracles in irrefutable
evidence that there is, somewhere, a
source of extraordinary beings and
powers; he communicates simply and
directly to some neglected but ex-
traordinarily powerful hope within
you, and he pays no heed to diplo-
macy. It*s no wonder he has to be
killed, and it’s no wonder SF writers
have not been able to leave religion
alone; SF is per se messianic. Weakly
messianic, it would appear, for its
“proofs” are, after all, events within
“stories” — that is, they are adver-
tised as fictional concoctions.

But SF is clearly messianic enough.
It is no longer reasonable to be sur-
prised when the next major writer, in
the fullness of a career, tackles this
theme; no longer possible to separate
SF from the “horror genre,” where
the whole concern is with power and
ethics, their source, nature and ab-
negation. Finally, it’s not at all sur-
prising, really, that an SF writer should
have founded a world-wide religion
in which millions find workable solu-
tions to mundane problems and assu-
rance of a fruitful afterlife. We want
to remember that not only did L. Ron
Hubbard found Scientology, he did so
only after increasingly impatient pes-
tering from John W. Campbell, Jr. It’s
not clear that there is in fact a cause-
and-effect sequence there, but Camp-
bell’s is clearly a name to add to these
rosters, if for no other reason then
because of his lifelong grapple with

religious conviction under the guise
of atheism, a process also undergone
in roughly the same way by James
Blish, come to think of it, and Blish
was Damon Knight’s close friend.

Which brings us to Godbody, and
high time, too:

Godbody takes the form of a series
of first-person accounts by various
people who encounter the mysterious
stranger descended one fine day up-
on their semirural environs. The first
of these is Dan Currier, a good-
hearted but wishy-washy Protestant
minister, who crosses paths with a
nude, good-looking man who may or
may not be crowned by a circling ha-
lo of white moths. His name is God-
body, says the stranger, and touches
Currier in order to find out who he
is. This action forever energizes Cur-
rier into a fresh regard for the world
. . . not one imposed from outside,
but one that has always waited within
him, and which overcomes him so
powerfully that it will be days before
he even begins to be able to describe
some of its details. But it seizes upon
him at once, and he acts in pure faith
that it is good — it is not only good, it
is in any case irresistible — and it
reminds me irresistibly of Michael
Valentine Smith’s declaration that we
are God ... in other words, that we
knew it all along; we are all kings
unwitting, and the Word shall some
day set us free.

Books

27

That is the message, and although
a number of persons repeat it, by dis-
covering Godbody’s effect upon them,
that is the sole and entire message.
Oh, it has some details to it, but that’s
it. It transforms Dan Currier’s mar-
riage; it goes on to make a prince of a
particularly slimy frog who had been
sidling up on Liza Currier’s blind
side, and finds him a fair damsel, too;
it melts the flinty heart of the town
banker, and in the end it kills God-
body, who comments “This really is a
hell of a way to make a living’’ and
promises he’ll be back, which prom-
ise he keeps, restoring a blind girl’s
sight.

Like Godbody himself, with his
rustic grammar and his weightless
aphorisms about clothes and cathe-
drals being equally superfluous, God-
hody is an artfully artless piece of
work. The characters are cartoons,
but just the right cartoons, for hero
and villain both, and their various
juxtapositions are very delicately con-
trived. The final few scenes are hard-
ly finished copy at all — the one is a
lecture on early Christianity, the oth-
er is this rather embarrassing little
Bernadettoid miracle. But one can
see, as much as anyone can ever fore-
see what Sturgeon was ever going to
do, how another draft would have
made the one smoother and the oth-
er more textured. And certainly it
would have been a monstrous indeli-
cacy to have someone “complete”
this work, as if it were a series of

sausages with the last link not quite
shaped out.

No, Sturgeon didn’t write in
strings, as many writers do. He wrote
the whole thing, every time, and wrote
the whole thing again until he had it
right. But even at the stages in which
we find Godbody now, it is clear
what he intended, and it is clear that
the intended effect takes place. Don-
aldson’s Afterword speaks movingly
of how this book transcends even the
triggers built into a child of mission-
ary parents, and Heinlein’s introduc-
tion for some not visible but paralog-
ical reason continually juxtaposes his
recollections of Sturgeon with his
recollections of Hubbard. Technical-
ly, all Sturgeon has done is bring a
series of witnesses to the front of the
room and had them testify to mira-
cles . . . oh, and he has done it in such
a way that we fail to note they are
fictional witnesses, and in any case
we fail to note they couldn’t possibly
be speaking to us.

Mike Resnick brings us a sort of
vest-pocket messiah, and aptly so, be-
cause Santiago and its epomynous lead
character are straight out of the ge-
neric pulp tradition. To give you the
storyline quickly, Santiago is the big-
gest, baddest bounty hunter/pirate in
the whole civilized galaxy, which gal-
axy is indistinguishable from frontier
America in the cattle-town days. San-
tiago is a figure of legend in song and
story, and one by one the various

28

Fantasy & Science FktkMi

gunners of lesser stripe must go up
against him, for thereby hangs the
gaining of the untimate rep, plus the
acquisition of the immense price
which weighs upon his head.

The details of how this works out
are spread across a great many small-
type pages by a man who is firmly and
assertively one of our major heirs to
pulp writing traditions. You may take
if from me that he will not disappoint
you if that is what you seek from him
and this epic of the spaceways, in
which faster-than-light starships sub-
stitute for the Butterfield Stage and
Miss Kitty’s motives are not entirely
unblemished. I kept looking for Bat
Durston by name, and did not find
him, but that is a very slight oversight
with which to tax the sapient Mr.
Resnick.

When you look at pulp writing,
you eventually come to realize that
it’s all about ethics. (So is all of fic-
tion, but pulp lays it right out there
on the line. ) The pulp story works on
its readers because every action in it
is a test of whether the actor de-
serves what will happen to him in
eventual consequence. Pulp tales state
cause-and-effect plainly, and they
make it indistinguishable from worth-
iness-and-just-desserts. What this
means is that if you really like pulp,
you’ve built up quite an involvement
with ethics, and with the great ques-
tion of what it is that determines
worth and judges it, and whether a
consciousness of worth springs from

“instinct” — that is, from something
instilled by processes other than those
of Mendelian heredity or Pavlovian
conditioning.

The talc of the master gunfighter
—occasionally transformed into such
personified forces as Sam Spade or
Philip Marlowe, and in any case deal-
ing out justice beyond appeal — has
gripped us for generations. 1 am not
the first to find overtones of messian-
ism in it, and so need not enlarge up-
on that fact, especially since Sergio
Leone made an ikon of Clint East-
wood while explaining it graphically,
and almost succeeded in evoking it
again in Once Upon a Time in Amer-
ica.

What I wanted to bring up here is
that a good technical way of analyz-
ing a pulp story is to look at its ethics.
I think you’ll find that it succeeds or
fails — that is, delivers emotional sat-
isfaction — to the extent that it justi-
fies that thing we call the Judeo-
Christian ethic and find most power-
ful when explicated by evangelists.

Interesting, eh? What I suggest
you do is read Santiago ... go ahead,
you’ll enjoy it to at least the extent of
13.50. And then I suggest you think
about the religious implications of
the ending. If you’ve already read it
—which I imagine many of you have
— I suggest you read it again, in the
light of all of the above.

What is SF, that we are mindful of
it? Well, I have only the vaguest and

Books

29

most tendencious theories, although
1 do know that mine right. But in
any event there are people taking it
seriously out there, and in token of
that, the indefatigable Gale Research
Company has published a weighty
Science Fiction and Fantasy Book
Review Index, 1980-1984. It lists in-
numerable SF books, fiction and non-
fiction, and tells you where you can
find reviews of them. It also lists in-
numerable SF authors, and tells you
where you can find reviews of them.
Then it lists nearly innumerable es-
says on various aspects of SF, first by
author and then by subject. It has, in
other words, got a lock on the foren-
sics of those four years in SF. And it is
part of a series including annual vol-
umes. Sure, it’s steep at SI 60. Doing
the work wasn’t easy for editor H.W.
Hall, or for his associate, Geraldine L.
Hutchins, who did the SF research
index. More to the point, getting it all
(nearly) straight was a lot of work for
Gale Research, and then there’s the
fact that not too many people are go-
ing to buy this volume. But those
who do need it need it a lot, and will
be getting a lot back.

I cannot imagine a more informa-
tive single work of reference for SF
scholar and serious afficionado. This
is a key into a vast domain, and you
can put that on the cover of the next
one.

I was touched when, two weeks
before this writing, 1 learned some-

thing of mine had won the Locus
Magazine poll for the best non-fiction
book of 1985. The book was, to give
it its formal title. Benchmarks: Gal-
axy Bookshelf by Algis Budrys, and it
reprinted all my review columns for
the “Galaxy Bookshelf’ feature in
Galaxy Magazine.

Well, I was going to write a letter
of thanks for publication in Locus,
but was told that would seem tacky
and self-serving. O.K., I would like
here to thank all those Locus readers
who are also F&SF readers and who
voted in the poll. And I would like to
tell all of you that even before this
signal event, Southern Illinois Uni-
versity Press had been sufficiently
pleased with the performance of that
first book so that they offered me a
contract on another one.

This next one will begin reprint-
ing my F&SF columns, and it will be
out some time in late 1987, I imag-
ine. It will* be called by some varia-
tion of Benchmarks, and it will be
the usual labor of love, with my wife
doing the Xeroxes, me doing the cut-
ting, pasting, copy-editing and index-
ing, and some pair of my friends
dragged in to do the introductory
material, as Frederik Pohl and Cath-
erine McClenahan were last time. I
am hoping that one of them this time
is Edward Ferman — Ed, this is your
formal invitation — and in any event I
want to thank all of you, whatever
else you read, for having made this
book necessary.

30

Fantasy & Science Fiction

Reg Bretnor’s new story introduces a team of parapsychologists
led by Chief Sam — Colonel Samuel Warhorse — on the trail of
the cause behind a series of Fortean events: everything from fly-
ing elephants to disappearing buses . . .

Ultimate Weapon

BY

REGINALD BRETNOR

I n Moscow, Ilya Ivanovitch Kula-
gin stood outside the KGB's Butyrka
Prison, where his wife, mother of his
four children, was being held prior to
being transported to an unnamed des-
tination to serve her twenty-year sen-
tence for the illegal possession of
American currency. They had thrown
him out when he asked to say good-
bye to her, and even as the iron gates
closed behind him he knew that prob-
ably he would never see her again.
Rage boiled within him as he walked
away. Half a block down the street,
tears coursing down his cheeks, he
turned and shook a futile fist at the
dark prison and the comfortable
apartment house, occupied by over-
indulged KGB personnel, that
masked it. Abruptly he lost all con-
trol. Pointing at the apartments, stab-
bing the air with an accusing finger,
he shouted, “Curse you! Curse all of

you! Whelps of the devil! Burn! Bum!
Bum! May God smite you! Bum! Fall
in mins! Let everything in you be de-
stroyed! NOWr he screamed.

There was a strange moment of
total silence. Then, with no warning,
first five, then ten, then scores of
windows in the building burst out-
ward; flames spurted from them;
smoke poured out of them. Screams
reached his ears, cries of agony. The
building now was a mass of flames,
and it was shaking. Even as he stood
there watching it, the building start-
ed to come apart. First its sides gave
way; then he heard crashes from its
center. In minutes, almost before the
first sounds of the approaching fire
brigade reached his ears, the apart-
ment house had been reduced to a
heap of fiercely flaming mbble.

Ilya Ivanovitch watched it dumb-
founded. He looked at the pointing

Uhiinatc Weapon

31

finger, which, he knew, had brought
it down. "'Godr he told himself.
“They say there is no God, but God
has given me power over them.” He
thought of striking at the Kremlin,
decided not to because it was a part
of ancient Russia. Slowly he made his
way to a subway station and took the
train to his own district. It was hard
to think, hard to know what to do.
Such a tremendous responsibility! He
needed a drink or two to clear his
brain. He went to a favorite tavern
and found one or two acquaintances
already there. He had one drink, two.
After the fifth, he decided he must
share his secret with others who, like
himself, were the oppressed. He
boasted to them of what he had done
to the apartment house, and found
that somehow word of the burning
had already reached them. They
laughed at him. He repeated every-
thing in dramatic detail.

It took the KGB less than three
minutes to get there. “Bastards!” he
screeched at them. “Turds! Bum like
your families! Diet Bumr

His finger stabbed the air — and
nothing happened. Very shortly af-
terward he was in an interrogation
cell at the infamous Lefortovo Prison,
and we need not concern ourselves
with what happened to him there.

In Calcutta, Indir Ghosh, a popu-
lar holy man, was sitting serenely on
the sidewalk of a main street, watch-
ing a religious procession led by sev-

eral highly decorated elephants. He
closed his eyes meditatively, contem-
plating the massive dignity of the
animals. “What a wonderful thing it
would be,” he murmured, “if they
could fly.” And in his mind’s eye, he
saw them rise into the air, their ma-
houts and their passengers suddenly
the members of an undreamed-of pan-
theon.

Screams and shouts shattered his
reverie — the screams of women and
children, the screech of brakes. His
eyes opened. There were no ele-
phants to be seen. Automatically he
looked up. They had risen perhaps
two hundred feet. They stayed there
for a full minute, squealing in terror.
Then they fell, and as elephants are
not equipped with landing gear, the
carnage was appalling. Police and sol-
diers finally came and destroyed those
beasts who had not been killed out-
right, bearing away the dead and in-
jured and spending some hours tidy-
ing up the street. One of the largest
elephants had fallen directly on Indir
himself, and only one smM boy had
heard his murmur and remembered
it.

In Tokyo a bank officer named
Heihachiro Nakayama was lying hap-
pily in bed with a lovely geisha whose
patron he had recently become. He
was looking admiringly at her classic
profile in the soft light filtering
through the shoji, and was thinking
idly what a pleasant life he would

32

Fantasy & Science Fiction

have if some obliging demon, say a
fox or badger, would rid him of his
shrewish wife and her — not his—
two always troublesome children. He
giggled as he imagined fanged bake-
mono foxes chasing Hideko and the
brats around the house and finally
catching them. However, his mind
was soon diverted as his hand crept
up the geisha’s silken thigh, and after
they had made love twice again, he
promptly went to sleep. He thought
no more about it until the following
afternoon, when he came home and
found what had happened to his fami-
ly. First he went to a nearby Buddhist
monastery and confessed everything
to the prior, a very sensible man who
advised him to seek out a good psy-
chiatrist. After that he wandered
through the streets for hours before
returning home, wrote a rambling
and scarcely decipherable account of
what he, in his wickedness, had done,
and finally threw himself in front of a
hundred-and-fifty mile-an-hour train.
The account found its way into a
highly sensational tabloid, and was
eventually translated into English, but
hardly anybody paid any attention to
it.

In northern Arizona a bus carry-
ing forty-seven men, women, and chil-
dren left the small town of Ashfork
bound for Prescott, an hour and a
half s run south. It passed through a
wide spot in the road named Chino
Valley, twenty miles from its destina-

tion, right on schedule. Then, in full
view of more than a score of ordi-
nary, sober citizens, it suddenly was
no longer there. It wasn’t anywhere;
and where it had been, there was on-
ly a slowly dissipating cloud of bone-
gray dust. There were no clues. The
police learned that among the ob-
servers, there was a girl whom the
bus driver, one Alec Moreno, had
made pregnant, and whom he had re-
fused to marry, but there had been no
way to link that to the disappearance.

Those were the first four cases I
glanced at, and the list Chief Sam—
Colonel Samuel Warhorse — had giv-
en me ran into thirty or forty or more
pages. 1 skimmed over it. Charles Fort
would have been delighted. A grand
piano had suddenly appeared in a
municipal swimming pool, where on-
ly swimmers had been a moment
previously. A very fat old lady, naked
in her tub, had found herself splash-
ing, not in water, but in small, wet,
live fish. A military pilot, a major with
fifteen years of service, flying at
twelve thousand feet, had seen his
craft dissolve around him; luckily his
parachute had remained intact, so he
had lived to tell of it — and to spend
days trying to answer the questions
they kept throwing at him. There had
been appearances and disappear-
ances. Things had blown up for no
reason; other things, similarly, had
suddenly imploded. Four highjackers,
armed to the teeth and having a fine

Ultiinate Weapon

33

time terrorizing a jet’s passengers and
crew, had — with no one even realiz-
ing what had happened — fallen mess-
ily to the floor with their throats slit
from ear to ear.

I’d first met Chief Sam during the
Vietnam War, where he was an army
shrink doing his thing at a Saigon
hospital. 1 was a fly-boy, a chopper
pilot. My problem had been simple. 1
always knew ahead of time when any-
body in my outfit was going to get
cancelled out — always. It was espe-
cially bad because 1 couldn’t do any-
thing about it. How do you go to a
fine young warrant officer and tell
him to refuse duty or goldbrick out
because Charlie was going to get
him? I’d come down for a routine
physical, and before 1 knew it, Colo-
nel Sam and I had had several talks,
and he’d convinced me to accept it.
Eventually he recruited me for The
Team, which may or may not be part
of the armed forces, just as he himself
may or may not now be a colonel. It
consists entirely of people like me,
people who have an unusual but use-
ful talent — my lovely half-Japanese
wife, for instance, who is so delicate-
ly tuned an empath that simply driv-
ing by a prison or a slaughterhouse,
or even a hospital, is an ordeal for
her. And The Team has kept going.
It’s based, more or less, in Colorado,
because that's where Chief Sam lives,
so most of us are in or around a min-
ing town called Cinnabar, just big
enough to hold the federal agencies

that give us our cover jobs, and where
we’re close when he needs us. Hush-
hush? Yes — so much so that quite a
few of us don’t even know The Team
exists. Even 1 might not if it weren’t
for the fact that I am, again more or
less, its second-in-command.

He’s a remarkable man. Chief Sam.
He’s tall and broad, with black eye-
brows like Sequoya’s and thick gray
hair. He’s a psychiatrist and a para-
psychologist and a lover of opera and
chamber music. He is also a medicine
chief of his own Osage Nation, and
regularly goes back to Oklahoma to
take part in tribal doings. His mind
has made room for both cultures, just
as it has for any number of languages.

He phoned me that morning. “Can
you come on over, Garry?’’ he asked.
“We’re onto something really inter-
esting.’’

I drove over immediately, to the
familiar office in his mountain home,
and he seated me by his huge desk.
“Here it is.’’ He handed me the list,
and said nothing more till I’d looked
it over. Then: “Well, what do you
make of it?’’ he asked.

“It’s the sort of stuff Charles Fort’s
books were full of, isn’t it? Impossi-
ble things that happen, then get clev-
erly explained away, then forgotten.
The only thing really unusual, it seems
to me, is that in the whole list only
two dates get mentioned. Do you
really mean all this happened just on
those two days?’’

He shook his head. “Not two days.

34

Fantasy & Science Fiction

Garry. Two dates, but not two days.
Some are from one side of the inter-
national dateline, some from the oth-
er, and those from the day side out-
number the night ones. But that's not
all. Every event listed — and as you’ve
probably noticed, they’re all wit-
nessed and attested to — every one
of them took place at exactly the
same time, roughly two minutes start-
ing at, say 1:51 P.M. here, 2:51 P.M.
there, 10:51 P.M. someplace else, and
3:51 A.M. somewhere on the other
side of the date line. While those ele-
phants were taking their little flight
over Calcutta, Gospodin Kulagin was
burning down the Butyrka Prison
apartment house and that bus was
vanishing in Arizona — and all the
rest as well. What does that say to
you?”

”We-e-ell — ” I hesitated, frown-
ing. ”It says that all of a sudden a hell
of a lot of people with dormant tal-
ents — and awfully strong ones—
were able to exercise them without
knowing it — simultaneously.'"

“And?”

“And that means that — that some-
thing, somehow, enabled them to do
it.”

“Garry, I know it’s hard to swal-
low — I’ve swallowed it. Those tal-
ents — even the limited ones The
Team has — are rare. When they
aren’t nonexistent, they’re usually
rigidly suppressed. Therefore, isn’t
there one more corollary?”

“Colonel Sam,” I said, “There is.

but it’s even tougher to accept: that
the suppression isn’t accidental, that
for all man’s history something has
deliberately acted to hold the power
of our minds in check.”

“Except for occasional apparent
lapses?”

“Except for those — and maybe it
doesn’t always work on minds that
are a bit defective; so that half-
retarded teenagers can come up with
poltergeists, and lunatics with verid-
ical prophecies.”

‘Tes, and very great and holy per-
sonages with miracles like — oh, let’s
say loaves and fishes, or the raising of
the dead.”

“It’s all too logical for comfort,” I
told him.

“Yes,” he answered, “and there’s
one more little point I haven’t men-
tioned, which you may have noticed.
Every episode on that list occurred in
the Northern Hemisphere. There have
been no reports from south of the
equator. Therefore, I think we safely
can assume that there are two such
centers of influence working on our
minds, and that each has one hemis-
phere as its area.”

“But what are they?”

“Beings? Devices? Minds? Who
knows? But whatever they are, since
we’ve deduced that they exist, very
possibly others may, too; and in the
world as we know it, considering the
power they restrict, it behooves us to
get there first. There are plenty of
people in the world who’d see this as

Uhiiiuite Weapon

35

the ultimate weapon — all they’d
have to do is get ahold of it, leam
what makes it work, and have it doing
tricks for them. I wouldn’t want it to
get into the hands of anyone like the
late Ayatollah, or the boys in the
Kremlin.”

I shuddered. “Strikes me that mon-
keying with anything like that could
be downright dangerous. It looks like
the human race, or anyhow a lot of
us, are a time bomb just waiting to go
off. Wouldn’t anybody figure that?”

“No, I don’t think so, Garry. Sane
people would, but those who are
dead certain they have God working
for them, or the Laws of History-
well, at least some would be sure
they were smart enough to manage
it.”

“And so?” I said.

“So we go after it ourselves, you
and me and maybe one or two others.
As far as anybody else is concerned
—and, with one exception, I mean
anybody, we’ll be a hush-hush scien-
tific expedition, complete with im-
pressive instruments and everything,
looking for something mysterious in
the ice.”

“You mean we’re going up near
the North Pole?”

Somewhere,"' said Chief Sam.
“The North Pole, or the North Mag-
netic Pole, or wherever. We don’t
know the laws that govern it, so it
may be pretty much anywhere — any-
where it can cover the Northern Hem-
isphere. It could be in orbit, though if

that were the case, chances are it’d
have been spotted by this time, or
underground, or below the surface of
the sea. Luckily we’ve got a girl who
probably can tell us.”

“Somebody on The Team?”

He nodded. “Just recently. I found
her in Virginia. Her name’s Veronica
Langmuir.”

I laughed. “She sounds straight
out of a Gothic.”

Chief Sam didn’t laugh. “She is,
Garry, she is. Wait till you meet her.
But she’s the finest dowser I’ve ever
run across, and that includes some of
the guys who were finding land mines
for the marines back in ’Nam. Usually
all you have to do is tell her what you
want to find, and she’ll pretty much
pinpoint it. All she needs is a good
map. We’ll go visit her as soon as
we’re through with Mother Burton.”

“Mother Burton? Why?”

Mother Burton was a weird old
Gypsy. She and her daughter, who
was just as weird, lived in an ancient
mobile home along the highway about
thirty miles north of Cinnabar, and
they told fortunes every which way.
Chief Sam thouglit a lot of her, but I’d
never been able to figure out wheth-
er her talent was for real — maybe
because she was such a terrible bore.
She never got tired of bragging how
she was an English Gypsy, and how
she’d cast the runes for everybody
from Churchill to Maggie Thatcher,
to say nothing of almost the whole
House of Lords, and how an ancestor

36

Fantasy & Science Fiction

of hers had told Isobel Arundel she
was destined to marry a man with the
same name as her tribe’s, who turned
out to be Sir Richard Burton.

“Why?” Chief Sam chuckled. “Be-
cause you’re going to have your for-
tune told. Remember? You’ve always
known if someone with you is going
to get hurt or killed, but you’ve never
foreseen anything about yourself—
not even that time you skidded on
the ice and broke your arm. And on
this expedition I’d just as soon the
old lady gave yoii a clean bill. After
all, you’ve going to help fly the chop-
per.”

Somehow, though I realized we’d
be heading up into the Arctic, I hadn’t
anticipated getting quite so intimate
with it.

“Colonel,” I said, “I’m shivering
already. A chopper doesn’t put much
between you and the great outdoors.”

“Don’t worry,” he said sweetly.
“We’ll keep you as warm as toast.”

I hadn’t seen Mother Burton for a
year or more, but she hadn’t changed
a bit. She had the same wrinkles;
same bright, beady eyes; and all the
stage-gypsy trappings: gaudy skirts
and scarves and — God help me! — a
chain of Krugerrands that would have
made me worry for her if I hadn’t
known that when she told a stranger’s
fortune, her daughter would be be-
hind the door into the kitchen right
next to their loaded riot gun. Be-
sides, if you’re worth your salt as a

fortune-teller, you ought to be able
to feel when someone is fixing to rip
you off.

Anyhow, both she and her daugh-
ter gave me the works: palms, tea
leaves, crystal ball. Mother Burton
gossiping all the time daughter was
working and daughter doing her best
to shush her.

“I see you going on a journey, a
long journey, you brave young man!”
she finally told me. “So does my
daughter — what’s that, Maysie?
Didn’t I say a long, cold journey?
You’re going with Mr. Sam here him-
self, and — yes, I see another man, a
great big man in uniform — or maybe
he ain’t wearing it? — and you got
two-three ladies with you, only one
of ’em has something wrong with
her. Lord God, it’s cold where you’re
going! And it’s real fiinny — why do I
keep thinking about Santa Claus?”

“Tell me, Ma,” Chief Sam said,
“will Garry be coming back all in one
piece?”

She nodded, pecking with her head
like a determined bird. “There’s
something I can’t understand up
where you’re going, something pret-
ty scary, and I get the notion of things
happening to people, nasty things,
but not to you — nor to the ladies
you’re with. Seems like maybe it was
far off, but 1 ain’t sure.”

“Do you see any other people up
there except us?”

She frowned. “Puzzles me,” she
said. “I do and yet I don’t. I get the

Uhiiiuite Weapon

37

smell, sort of, of foreigners. Could
there be foreigners up there, maybe
after something?”

‘‘There could indeed,” Chief Sam
told her.

After that, she couldn't seem to
come up with much more informa-
tion, neither she nor daughter, so we
thanked her and drove home again.

‘‘Well, that makes me feel better,”
Sam assured me.

‘‘Me too,” I answered, ‘‘but I don't
know that it’ll make me feel any
warmer. And now what do we do,
take off to see your girlfriend in Vir-
ginia?’'

‘‘She’s not in Virginia, not any
longer. I’ve brought her out to Ruys-
dale. She’s staying with Amy Hamp-
ton, at least for the time being.”

I’d worked with Amy several times.
She had two talents: one for diagnosis
—not just physical ailments, but also
true states of mind, no matter how
dissembled; the other, not really pow-
erful, for PK. She was cheerful, bux-
om, middle-aged, thoroughly depend-
able.

‘‘On the way. I’d like to swing by
Cinnabar,” Chief Sam went on, “and
pick your wife up. I’ve a hunch we’ll
need her, and I’d like to see how she
reacts to Veronica. O.K.?”

Marina’s very fond of him and
trusts him implicitly, so I just
nodded.

On the way, he filled me in on
how he had it figured out. ‘‘Chances
are,” he said, ‘‘that we won’t have to

worry about anybody but the Rus-
sians. That’s not dead certain, but
they’ve been spending all sorts of ru-
bles on psi research for years now—
more than we ever have. So if they’ve
tumbled to the situation, they’ll have
people who can maybe do something
about it. Besides that, geographically
they can get as close to the action as
we can. However, they’ll have one big
disadvantage. Everything out of their
research has to fit into Old Man
Marx’s nineteenth-century picture of
how and why — doctrinaire material-
ism — and there are a great many
phenomena that not only don’t fit but
positively contradict it. Furthermore,
1 can’t imagine them mounting an
expedition as important as this with-
out having some KGB types along,
and that’s not going to help their sen-
sitives at all.”

‘‘What’ll we do if we run into
them?”

‘‘I don’t rightly know, Garry.” He
frowned. ‘‘Mother Burton was pretty
sure we’re going to survive, and when
she’s serious she's usually around 95
percent right. As for self-defense
measures and stuff like that, let’s hope
they won’t be necessary. Anyhow, we
can’t do any detailed planning till we
know more about whatever it is we’re
looking for, and even then we’ll prob-
ably have to play the whole thing by
ear.”

Somehow, just listening to his deep
voice discussing it reassured me—
after all, he’d never muffed any of the

38

Fantasy A Science Fiction

missions we’d carried out together.
The rest of the way, he talked about
such practical considerations as what
we might expect from recon satel-
lites — ours and theirs. And we both
speculated on who or what might
have installed the Monitor — we’d al-
ready .given it the name — and how
far in the past they’d done it. He
summed it up succinctly. “There are
three possibilities,’’ he said. “First,
aliens from outer space, buzzing
around in flying saucers or whatever
maybe a million years ago, wise
enough to recognize our potentials
for development and destruction, and
nice enough not to wipe us out; next,
some sort of Secret Ascended Mas-
ters who’re still around — though
that seems the least probable; and fi-
nally some really ancient race.’’

“I can’t think of any with that kind
of know-how,’’ I objected.

“Not on our historical scale, per-
haps, but how about earlier — much
earlier? A race with no surviving ruins?
People who disappeared without a
trace? Think how many tribes and na-
tions have their legends of the Old
Ones. And remember what the Lord
said in Genesis: Be fruitful and mul-
tiply and replenish the Earth. That
replenish is an interesting word, Gar-
ry. Maybe it wasn’t accidental. Who
knows how maily cataclysms — shift-
ing poles, suddenly surging oceans-*
may have wiped the world clean of
advanced life? Anyhow, we don’t know
who put it there, and maybe we never

will. But it is there, and we know
what it’s doing there, and for the
moment that’s all-important.’’

1 phoned Marina along the way,
and when we reached Cinnabar she
was ready and waiting for us. Her
Aunt Tomiko had been living with us
since the first of our two kids was
bom, so there was no problem there.
She got into the front seat between
Sam and me, beautiful and fragile and
bright and golden and tough as a
bowstring despite her sensitivity. She
kissed Sam’s ear, patted me on the
knee, and said, “What’s in the wind?
Can you let me in on it?’’

Sam told her, and she listened
without interrupting, but when he’d
finished she frowned a little and said,
“Wouldn’t something like that, some-
thing as important as that, created by
someone probably far, far more ad-
vanced than we — well, wouldn’t it
have some built-in defenses of its
own? Probably pretty effective ones?’’

I hadn’t even thought of that pos-
sibility, and Chief Sam hadn’t men-
tioned it. Keeping his eyes on the
road, he nodded gravely. “Chances
are it has. That’s certainly something
we’ll have to keep in mind. But if it
does have, maybe it also has some
way of separating the sheep from the
goats — those who are a danger to it
from those who aren’t.’’

“Do you think this woman we’re
going to see can tell us?’’

“Marina dear, perhaps she can.

Ultimate Weapon

39

She*s a dowser, meaning she can lo-
cate things, sometimes using a pen-
dulum, sometimes not. As 1 told Gar-
ry, all she needs is a good map. But
she not only can find things — some-
times she can even tell what those
things are, and that’s what I’m hoping
for in this case. But I’m not going to
tell you any more about her. I want
you to meet her with no preconcep-
tions, so don’t judge her by her Ro-
mantic Revival name. 1 want to know
exactly how you feel about her.”

‘‘She’s new to us, isn’t she?”

‘‘Very new. It’s been less than
three weeks since I persuaded her to
move out here and work with us.”

Ruysdale is about twenty-five miles
from Cinnabar, in the opposite direc-
tion from Mother Burton’s, and it
didn’t take us long to get there—
Chief Sam isn’t a slow driver. Amy
Hampton’s little house was only a few
blocks from where we entered the
town, and Amy, tipped off by Sam, had
taken time off from her library job
and was waiting for us at the door.

She waited while Sam brought a
map case out of the back seat, then
hugged us all and, talking a blue
streak, chivied us into the living
room. ‘‘Now just you-all sit down,”
she said. ‘‘I’ve got coffee and snacks
all fixed — just have to bring them in.
That over there — ” She pointed to a
tall, straight-back chair by the fire-
place, upholstered in a muted, glow-
ing green. ‘‘— that’s Veronica’s. You
can sit anywhere else you please. My

lady’ll be out in just a minute.”

"*My Lady?' I thought, and ex-
changed glances with Marina. And
yet there had been no sarcasm be-
hind the words, only affection.

‘‘Veronica!” she called. “Veroni-
ca, company’s here!”

There was no reply, but a few sec-
onds later we heard steps in the little
corridor leading to the bedrooms.
Then, very suddenly, Veronica Lang-
muir was there, and I saw what Chief
Sam had meant by saying that she
really was straight out of a Gothic.
She was very tall, nearly six feet, but
she did not stoop like so many tall
women do, and she was beautiful
with a snow-blonde Northern beauty
seldom seen except in dreams or
dreamlike illustrations. She stood
there, and her face surveyed the room
—not her eyes. I realized with a shock;
her face. Her eyes were light, a very
light greenish blue, and 1 saw instant-
ly that she was blind, totally blind.
She was wearing a housecoat — I
suppose it was — with a high collar
and puffled sleeves, and all as warmly
yellow as a newly opened daffodil.
Around her neck she wore a string of
cairngorms.

“Colonel Warhorse,” she said, and
her voice was as beautiful as she her-
self, “Amy told me you were on your
way. I am so glad to see you, and your
friends — my colleagues now? Let’s
see, Douglas Garrioch is one of them,
I know, and there’s someone charm-
ing with him. I can sense her.”

40

Fantasy & Science Fiction

“That’s Marina. That’s my wife,” I
blurted.

“Marina is a lovely name,” she
said. “And now I’d like to see you the
only way I can, with my fingertips.
You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not!” cried Marina,
stepping up to her. “Come, Garry.”

Her long cool fingers touched our
cheeks. “Nice, nicer she murmured.
“Oh, I’m so happy that you came.”

I realized that she had developed
many talents, many senses, to make
up for her lack of vision.

She moved unerringly to the high-
backed chair and seated herself as if
were a throne. “We can start when-
ever you want to,” she said. “We can
use the card table.”

Amy brought it out and set it on
its legs. Chief Sam opened his map
case, removed its contents, and spread
the topmost chart on the table. It
showed the very top of the world.

Veronica touched it very lightly
with her left hand. “Everything feels
white,” she said. “Almost everything.
No, it’s not like other maps.” From
her housecoat’s pocket she had taken
a pointed crystal pendulum on a silver
chain, and now her hovering right
hand began to move slowly across
the surface of the chart, holding the
crystal an inch or so above its surface.
“Colonel Warhorse.” she asked, “can
you tell me what I’m supposed to be
searching for?”

“I can’t exactly,” he replied. “All I
can tell you is what we think it does.

It is something fashioned, probably
long, long ago, by beings about whom
we know nothing, and it has power
—power to suppress those rare tal-
ents our own Team employs in a
small way. Is that enough? Later I’ll
tell you more.”

“It is enough, I think.”

She leaned forward, her expres-
sion suddenly intense. “Yes-s-s,” she
whispered. “Yes.”

The pendulum quivered. Abruptly
it moved across the surface of the
chart, the surface of the frozen polar
sea, and her hand followed it. It
passed true north, swerved round,
began a slow movement toward Bat-
hurst Island and the magnetic pole,
then reversed itself and, much more
rapidly, crossed almost to the north
Alaskan coast near Point Barrow, then
back toward true north again — a
hundred miles, two hundred, and a
hundred more. Halfway, and almost
equidistant from Alaska and the Si-
berian coast, it hesitated, stopped
dead, still quivering. Slowly, very
slowly, it began describing a figure
eight — or was it the symbol of
infinity?

Veronica put her elbows on the
chart and steepled her fingers trying
to steady it. “How very strange!” she
exclaimed. “It’s never been like this
before. It just won’t come any closer.
Do you have a larger-scale map?”

“Yes, I do,” Chief Sam told her.
“But couldn’t we do better with sat-
ellite or aerial photos?”

Ultimate Weapon

41

She shook her head. **I can’t work
with them. They just don’t tell me any-
thing. I don’t know why.”

He changed charts, making sure
the coordinates were aligned — and
the pendulum simply continued its
strange, sweeping figure-eight move-
ment, on a greater scale, more vio-
lently.

‘‘That — that’s a little better,” she
said. ‘‘I — 1 can feel it, whatever’s
there.” For a long moment she was
silent, brow furrowing. ‘‘I can feel it,
but I don’t understand it. It — it’s as
though it were alive somehow — and
yet not truly. But it’s not a machine,
no. And I can sense the power in it.
But ~ but there’s something wrong.
If 1 were sure it was alive. I’d say it
was — well, somehow distressed, ter-
ribly, terribly distressed. But I don’t
think it’s alive, not really, the way we
are. At least, its body isn’t.” She
laughed, a bit hysterically. ‘‘Oh dear!
What does that mean?”

‘‘It could mean,” Chief Sam said
gently, ‘‘that its body never was alive,
but that its spirit lives — which would
pose a nice quandary for our Russian
counterparts.”

From the map case, he had taken a
flat portfolio of photographs, select-
ing one; and peering over his shoul-
der, 1 saw that it was white, white,
white — but it showed no smooth
sea of snow, not this. For ages
the pack ice had been pushed and
crushed. It was scarped, hum-
mocked, pressure-ridged. The coor-

dinates told me that it showed the
area over which the pendulum still
did its erratic dance, but there was
nothing to distinguish it from its sur-
roundings.

‘‘Can you calm it down a little, Ver-
onica? Can we pinpoint it more close-
ly?”

‘‘I — I simply can’t,"' she an-
swered. ‘‘Maybe if I were right there
on the ground — I mean the ice — I
could with a divining rod, but on the
map I can’t.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” Chief
Sam said. ‘‘We have it within some-
thing like a twenty- to thirty-mile
circle, and that ought to be close
enough, at least till we get there
tomorrow.”

''Tomorrow?” I gasped.

‘‘Of course tomorrow. Garry, this
won’t wait. If it were at all possible.
I’d say today.” His face was very
grave. ‘‘The only question is, who be-
sides you is coming with me? It won’t
be anything like polar exploration in
the old days. We’ll have no trouble
keeping warm, no trouble with sup-
plies, no real risk of being out of
touch —unless we’re hit by a really
rough unexpected storm, and there’s
nothing like that threatening. But of
course there’ll be danger. We’ll makq
our approach from Point Barrow, and
the Russians — if any do show up—
will be coming from way up in Si-
beria, about the same distance away.”
He paused. ‘‘It’ll all be voluntary,” he
said, ‘‘but I’d like to have both Marina

42

Fantasy & Science Fiction

and Veronica along: Veronica to find
the Monitor for us, and Marina be-
cause she is an empath and because,
if the Monitor is indeed alive, any
rapport we can establish with it will
be invaluable.”

He looked at all of us, and Veroni-
ca said instantly, “Colonel Warhorse,
of course I’ll come. But — but won’t I
be a — a problem for you? After
all-”

“I’ll come, too, if you want me
to,” Amy offered. “I’ll be Seeing-Eye
Amy for you, Veronica. Tell our big
Injun here how good I’m getting at
it.”

“She really is. Colonel.”

Chief Sam chuckled. “And Ma-
rina?”

“I certainly don’t intend to let
Garry go wandering off into the Froz-
en North without me. I’ll tell Aunt
Tomiko to take care of the kids—
she’ll be tickled pink. Will there be
any others with us?”

“A navy type, Tom Conradin, an
old friend of mine. He’s being flown
out, and he’ll meet us up at Barrow.
After I make some calls. I’ll drive you
and Garry back to Cinnabar to kiss
your kids. Then we’ll have dinner to-
gether, and we’ll be picked up later
in the evening.”

“B-but won’t we have to, well,
pack?"" Veronica asked.

“Not at all. Everything’ll be taken
care of. Amy, may 1 use your phone?”

Sam was on the phone for about

half an hour, talking into a little
scrambler he attached to it after mak-
ing his connections. He gave precise
directions: the type of aircraft he’d
need, the emergency equipment, ev-
erything — even the arctic clothing
and, I was relieved to hear, personal
weaponry. From the way it sounded,
nobody on the other end was arguing
with him. So it goes when one’s au-
thority starts all the way at the top.

When he hung up, his expression
was really grim. “The Russkies are al-
ready there,” he said.

“So what do we do now?” 1 asked.

“We go anyhow. It’s all arranged,
and we’ve as much right there as they
have.” He put the scrambler back in
his pocket. “Veronica, we’ll be back
in an hour at the outside. Bye now.”

Back in the car, he seemed to
forget all about the Soviets. “What do
you think of Veronica?” he asked Ma-
rina. “What’s she like deep down?”

“Sam, she’s as beautiful inside as
she is outside. She’s kind, and there’s
no bitterness about her blindness,
and she’s strong, very strong. But I
could feel a deep, deep, dreadful sad-
ness, her fear of being dependent, of
causing people trouble. I think it’d be
awfully difficult for her to form any
really close relationship, like mar-
riage or even an affair — perhaps es-
pecially an affair. She has a horror of
being pitied.”

I thought of what a strange sort of
expedition it was going to be, and of
how odd the people at Point Barrow

Ultimate Weapon

43

were sure to think it — blind Gothic
heroine complete with handmaiden,
lovely Eurasian woman complete with
one time fly-boy husband, Indian chief
with his eagles on his shoulders in-
stead of their feathers in a warbon-
net. And 1 wondered, too, how the
thing we were seeking would react
to us — and what we*d do if and
when the Russkies or whoever came.

“Chief Sam,** I said, “we know
what took place during that two-
minute interval when our hickus was
off the air. I’m sure your analysis is
right on line. But has anyone really
looked into the history of such For-
tean happenings — I mean, to see if
there may have been similar time-
coincidences long ago? What else oc-
curred when the Red Sea opened for
the children of Israel, or when the
sun stood still for Joshua? Whatever
the hickus itself is, its malfunctions
could go back a long way.’*

“We though of that, but there’s
been no time. Anyhow, our cursory
survey of the literature showed only a
handful of coincidences that could
have been at all significant — nothing
like our several hundred cases a week
ago. So again, we don’t know how,
what, or why. But we do know we
have to act without losing any more
time. Remember what I said about
the Ultimate Weapon.**

I thought of what might happen if
someone found it. Addled with it, and
ruined it completely. “My God!’* I
said. “If it got turned completely off.

the results could be mind-boggling.**

“Exactly, Garry. But aside from
getting there first, if possible, there’s
nothing we can do about it. Right
now I want you to tell me if your
good Scottish second sight is getting
any warnings about Veronica and Amy
and Marina — and about me, for that
matter.**

I shook my head. “Nothing, Col-
onel,** I answered. “I don’t feel any-
thing about any of you, except — *’ I
paused, trying to put a vague hunch
into words. “— except I think some-
thing’s going to happen to Veronica,
something stupendous, good or bad
—I can’t tell which.’*

“Let’s pray it’s good,** he said. He
didn’t need to warn any of us not to
depend on what I could foresee. One
of The Team’s ironclad rules was al-
ways to take all ordinary precautions.
Just because your third eye showed
you it’d be safe to run that red light
at over eighty didn’t mean you went
ahead and did it.

A navy aircraft picked us up at
Cinnabar’s Air National Guard field at
7:30 on the dot, and another, better
suited to the climate, ferried us on
out to Point Barrow from our Alaskan
landing. By 1:00 a.m. we were being
shown to our quarters for the night,
and Sam had introduced us to his naval
friend. Tom Conradin was a com-
mander: tall; handsome in a kindly,
weather-beaten sort of way; and—
well, the only word is substantial.

44

Fantasy & Science Fiction

“Tom can fly anything, Garry,”
Sam said. He grinned. “And you’re go-
ing to find him very talented in other
ways. We’ve worked together several
times now.”

Then he introduced Tom to Ver-
onica, and I have never in my life wit-
nessed an introduction like it. It was
as though there was an instant flow of
—what? energy? life force? pure har-
mony? — between the two of them. I
felt that it was something beyond my
understanding, and I resented it be-
cause I could not understand. How
was it, 1 asked myself, that whenever
Sam set up one of his people-
equations, it never failed to work
out?

Saying nothing, smiling, Veronica
touched Tom Conradin’s features,
slowly, as though savoring each de-
tail. She murmured her pleasure.
Then, gently, very gently, he took her
right hand in his and kissed its palm.

“I’m glad, Veronica,” he said. “I
am glad.”

“And I,” she echoed.

“I’ve a feeling,” Amy whispered in
my ear, “that I’m not going to be
Seeing-Eye Amy too much longer. I—
I’m so happy I could c-cry.”

Sam just stood there beaming.

Talented? I thought. You said it!
He and she — they certainly have
something I don't have.

The other introductions followed;
somebody took orders for a nightcap;
we relaxed for ten or fifteen minutes,
then went to bed.

Next morning, everything was as
ready as Sam had promised: every bit
of arctic clothing, wonderfully insu-
lated, electrically heated. I knew it
would fit each of us perfectly — and
that in spite of being used to Sam’s
effectiveness. I’d still wonder how
the devil he’d managed it.

We had breakfast in the officer’s
mess, and there the base comman-
dant joined us. Over the ham and
eggs and hotcakes, he briefed us about
the Soviets. They’d come in three
choppers, and there must’ve been
more than twenty personnel. They
lighted down a couple of miles from
the area Veronica’s pendulum had
indicated, and at first they seemed to
be searching it methodically, but be-
fore long their movements began to
look more and more erratic; they
started going around, not in circles,
but in ellipses, pretty much as the
pendulum had done over the chart.
Our people had kept them under
routine observation, making a photo-
graphic record using telephoto len-
ses, which they now showed us, to-
gether with an outline of the area
covered.

Chief Sam watched it silently.
Some of them made a great show of
using scientific instruments as though
prospecting — exactly as we’d pro-
posed to do. But they kept breaking
off more and more often, stopping to
discuss or, judging from the vigor of
their gestures, possibly to argue.

“What the hell do you suppose

Ultimate Weapon

45

they were looking for?” asked the
commandant. ‘‘Oil? Uranium? A stash
of platinum?”

‘‘I wouldn’t know,” Sam answered,
‘‘but we’ve still got orders to sniff
around ourselves.”

‘‘I guess that makes sense,” said
the commandant, ‘‘even if they didn’t
find it. They took off for Old Home
Week in Siberia just a couple of hours
after you got here.”

Sam and I exchanged glances. Had
they found what we were looking
for? Or hadn’t they? And were they
planning to come back?

We changed into our arctics and
found the chopper waiting for us,
loaded with all sorts of equipment
and a lot of gadgetry whose function I
couldn’t even guess at. I found myself
wondering whether it hadn’t been
put together at Chief Sam’s order to
confound any possible observers. The
chopper wasn’t one I was too familiar
with, but 1 guessed rightly that Tom
Conradin knew all about it, so I took
the copilot’s seat. He made a beauti>
ftil takeoff, with Veronica sitting as
close ^to him as possible.

You never realize how small a
world is until you’ve seen our own
from far out in space, or so they tell
me — but you never realize how vast
it is, and how smz\\ you are, until you
fly over it, and especially over those
forbidding regions where the last Ice
Age still lingers on. The miles of pack
ice, first the tens and scores of miles.

then one hundred, two hundred,
three—

Finally, as we neared the area Ver-
onica’s pendulum had selected for
us. Chief Sam brought out the chart
again, and, for his own reference, the
photographs. The day was absolutely
clear, and visibility was horizon to
horizon. We were sure the Soviets
would be observing us, and as we
flew, Sam gave us instructions in how
to put on a good show for them.

Now the pendulum was once again
describing its figure eight, its symbol
of infinity, but more decisively than it
had before, without its previous trem-
ors and hesitations — then abruptly
Veronica cried out, “Colonel! Col-
onel Warhorse! See where the two
loops of the eight are crossing? I feel
it strongly there. Is it a place where
we can land?”

Sam checked the chart. He check-
ed the photograph. He and Tom Con-
radin carefully compared them with
our assumed position. I looked out
and down, to where Sam was point-
ing. There, a thousand feet below us,
I saw a tilted plane of ice, almost a
mile long and from half to three-
quarters wide, high at one end as if
the pack ice had pushed against and
under it. It was a little smoother than
the surrounding ice. We circled round
it carefully, dropping lower with each
tightening circle, Sam and 1 with our
binoculars searching for signs of the
Soviets’ visit. We found them, but not
on our tilted block. Their choppers

46

Fantasy & Science Fiction

had landed on the rougher surround-
ing ice, apparently on two sides, and
we could sec the tracks of one or
more vehicles of some sort, probably
power sleds or snowmobiles.

“Where do you want us down, Ver-
onica?” Tom asked.

She let her pendulum’s point strike
the chart. “There!” she answered.

It was pointing approximately at
the center of our ice plate.

With infinite care, Tom brought
us down. He switched off the turbos.
We waited, looking at Veronica and
at each other.

“We’re close enough,” she told
us, and from a pocket she produced a
forked twig, peeled and polished from
much use, hazel or willow probably.
But there were other things to do be-
fore she could begin to use it. We put
on full arctic kits, face masks, heated
gloves, everything. Then we unloaded,
putting the instruments ostentatious-
ly out onto the ice, stacking supplies
and what, when set up, would be two
igloo-shaped, insulated tents. Then
we began to reconnoiter, and found
that the Soviets had indeed looked
over our own area, but — judging by
their tracks — only cursorily. For an
hour or two, we made a great show of
wandering around with one or anoth-
er of the instruments, making notes
of our wholly mythical findings, and
pretending to discuss matters seri-
ously and excitedly. In the meantime,
Veronica, with Tom always at her el-
bow, had started using her little

dowsing rod. He and she followed it
from one creased ridge to another,
always toward the elevated end. Fi-
nally, before the largest of a rough
series of high hummocks, one that
rose fifty or more feet, facing us with
a forbidding scarp, they halted.

“// is herer she said, in a very
small voice. “// is here, and it — it is
aliver She pointed directly at the
scarp. “Can we set the tents up here?”

“No reason why not,” Chief Sam
replied. We set to work, all of us ex-
cept Veronica, and set them up in the
hummock’s lee, sheltered from the
occasional gusts of wind that swept
against it.

Then Sam turned to Marina. “Can
you contact it?” he asked.

Before she answered him, she
came to me, and though I could not
see her face, 1 knew that she was
scared. 1 put an arm around her.

“Contact it? Oh Sam, I’m not sure.
But I feel that it is trying to contact
me — at least to tell me something
about — I suppose about itself. How
can 1 put it? Remember what Veroni-
ca said about despair? I feel waves of
it: great, dark, almost hopeless waves
of it. Sam, I feel it’s been deserted,
abandoned, left all alone by those
who put it here, whom it has always
trusted.”

“Marina, what is it?”

“Colonel Sam, I just don’t know."'

He weighed the next questions.
“Has it a body? At least a body as we
know them?”

Uhiiiuite Weapon

47

‘Wo.'” she cried. “No, no, no! It
knows what we’re asking now. It’s
starting to understand through all
that despair. It has no body.' It — it’s
pure spirit. Oh, call it pure mind! It
permeates this ice — only — only it’s
not ice, not this big block we’re
standing on. It’s something else,
something contrived by those who
brought it here. It looks like frozen
water, but it isn’t. It sinks deeper into
the sea, and it won’t melt unless they
want it to. Sam, it’s been here forever
—tens of thousands of years, a mil-
lion maybe — and all that time this
poor mind’s been doing what it’s sup-
posed to do. Veronica, am I right?
You can sense it, can’t you?”

“Yes,” said Veronica. “It doesn’t
speak in words, but then^ it doesn’t
need to. I can feel everything more
clearly now — now that it’s learned
to use your mind as, well, as a bridge
—its terrible sadness, its abandon-
ment, the mounting fear that drove it
to shirk its duty for those two min-
utes, hoping that they’d — that they'd
come back to — to cherish it.” She
shook her head, her sightless eyes
weeping behind their protective gog-
les; and Tom Conradin held her close
and murmured over her, words of
comfort, of protection.

“My God!” Amy whispered. “It—
it sounds almost human. That
need-'

And suddenly, then, it happened.
Slowly, in the frozen face -of that
harsh scarp, almost behind one of our

two tents, a door began to form, as
though that ice that was not ice were
melting. We stared at it open-
mouthed and frightened, until it was
wide enough to enter two abreast.

We moved toward it — and we
were halted in our tracks, Sam and 1,
Amy and Marina. We did not feel that
we had been halted. We simply ceased
to move. And it was then I realized
that it — whatever it might be — was
not without its own defenses. Had it
not been for the fact that Tom and
Veronica were still advancing, we
never would have known that we’d
been stopped. We simply would have
changed direction slightly and
moved away.

But Tom and Veronica went on.
Hand in hand, they walked into that
chill doorway, and vanished through
it.

The rest of us waited there. We
waited at -least a thousand years —
even though our lying watches called
it a mere ten minutes. Then, still
hand in hand, they came out again,
and the expression on their faces was
one I had never really seen before, a
combination of pure joy and sheer
wonder.

“You can go in now,” said Veroni-
ca. “Something incredible has hap-
pened. I’ll tell you later.” And she
laughed aloud, a lovely bell-like laugh
like a delighted child laughing.

‘Tes, please go in,” Tom urged.
“Please, now.”

41

Fantasy & Science Fiction

Slowly wc walked forward, first
Sam and Amy, then I and Marina. We
entered a long passageway that turn-
ed. We followed it around the comer.

We stood in a vast chamber —vast
not so much for its size as for the
amazement of its perspectives. In-
stantly I thought of Coleridge’s words,
A sunny pleasure dome unth caves of
ice^ though of course it wasn’t sunny.

It was not sunlit, no — but some-
how it was lighted gloriously. Light
filled it, corruscating from the trans-
lucent walls, swirling in their depths.
We stood there amazed, for now we
all could feel the Being that sur-
rounded us in all its magnificent sim-
plicity. We could feel its sorrow, its
anguish, its very human guilt at its
own dereliction. And at the same
time, I felt suddenly — and so, I
learned later, did all the others—
that all this was in the past, that its
purpose had been restored and the
senseless void that had oppressed it
suddenly filled with as great a happi-
ness. Vaguely, too, I understood that
now it perceived the design of those
who had abandoned it, wby they had
done so, and — most important-
why we were there.

The Soviets had come and gone,
leaving behind them their litter and
the aftertaste of their own sorrow,
their fear of each other and of the
secret police, and their absolute de-
nial of what we could face as real, so
that even the most sensitive among
them had not dared to report what

they had sensed as clearly as had we.
They had left, having nothing to re-
port but failure.

They had come and gone, leaving
it in an even deeper pit of despair
than before.

Then Veronica and Tom had come
there, radiating their love and har-
mony and fearlessless — and that, I
saw suddenly, had changed every-
thing.

After another thousand years, we
saw that there was no further need
for us to stay. We walked out slowly
down the passage and through the
door, which in utter silence closed
shut behind us.

Tom and Veronica were standing
there, facing each other.

She was looking at him.

“Yes,” he whispered to us, awe
and wonder in his voice, “/f under-
stood. For just a second, it gave me
what I wished for, the — the — ”

“The right to work one miracle,”
said Veronica.

Marina ran to her and kissed her;
she kissed Tom. We clustered round
them in our delight.

It was Chief Sam who finally
brought us back to Earth. “Well,” he
told us, “I guess it’s time we started
back. We’ll have to admit that, like
the Russkies, we failed to find the Ul-
timate Weapon—”

He smiled at all of us. “But it’s
nice to know,” he added softly, “That
at least some of us have advanced to
the point where we can cherish our

Ultimate Weapon

49

own guardian angel.”

“And '^^at about the one at the
other end of the world?” asked Ma-

rina.

“I’m sure,” replied Veronica, “that
it got the message.”

**Hi there! rd like to grant you three wishes with the exception of any in
the areas of politics, ecology and state and local lotteries,**

50

Fantasy & Science Fiction

England's Robert Holdstock published one remarkable story in
F&SF: ''Mythago Wood” September 1981, recently expanded in-
to and published as a novel. It's a pleasure to have him back
with this fine tale of the building of a church on a ground
inhabited by ancient spirits.

Thorn

BY

ROBERT HOLDSTOCK

for Richard Cowper

A

M vkt sundown, when the ma-
sons and Guild carpenters finished
their work for the day and trudged
wearily back to their village lodgings,
Thomas Wyatt remained behind in
the half-completed church and lis-
tened to the voice of the stone man,
calling to him.

The whispered sound was urgent,
insistent: “Hurry! Hurry! I must be
finished before the others. Hurry.

Thomas, hiding in the darkness
below the gallery, felt sure that the
ghostly cry could be heard for miles
around. But the watchman, John Tag-
worthy, was almost completely deaf
now, and the priest was too involved
with his own holy rituals to be aware
of the way his church was being
stolen.

Thomas could hear the priest. He
was circling the new church twice, as
he always did at sundown. He carried

a small, smoking censer in one hand,
a book in the other. He walked from
right to left. Demons, and the ghostly
sprites on the old earth, flew before
him, birds and bats in the darkening
sky. The priest, like all the men who
worked on the church — except for
Thomas himself — was a stranger to
the area. His hair was long, and he
had a dark, trimmed beard; an unu-
sual look for a monk.

He talked always about the Su-
preme Holiness of the place where
his church was being built. He kept a
close eye on the work of the crafts-
men. He prayed to the north and the
south, and constantly was to be seen
kneeling at the very apex of the
mound, as if exorcising the ancient
spirits buried there.

This was Dancing Hill. Before the
stone church there had been a wood-
en church, and some said that Saint

Thom

51

Peter himself had raised the first tim-
bers. And hadn’t Joseph, bearing the
Grail of Christ, rested on this very
spot, and driven out the demons from
the earth mound?

But it was Dancing Hill. On mid-
winter’s eve, spikes of the four great
woods were secretly buried in the
mound, and stories were told of the
very first church that had stood there;
and of the four great trees that had
grown around it, each trunk carved
into the shape of a dancing man.

Sometimes it was referred to by
its older name, Ynys Calidryv, isle of
the old fires. And there were other
names, too, but they were forgotten
now.

“Hurry!” called the stone man from
his hidden niche. Thomas felt the
cold walls vibrate with the voice of
the specter. He shivered as he felt the
power of the earth returning to the
carved ragstone pillars, to the neatly
positioned blocks. Always at night.

The watchman’s fire crackled and
flared in the lee of the south wall.
The priest walked away, down the
hill to the village. He stopped just
once to stare back at the half-
constructed shell of the first stone
church in the area. Then he was
gone.

Thomas stepped from the dark-
ness, staring up through the empty
roof to the clouds and the sky, and
the gleaming light that was Jupiter.
His heart was beating fast, but a great
relief touched his limbs and his mind.

And as always, he smiled, then closed
his eyes for a moment. He thought of
what he was doing. He thought of
Beth, of what she would say if she
knew his secret work. Sweet Beth.
With no children to comfort her, she
was now more alone than ever. But it
would not be for much longer. The
face was nearly finished. . . .

‘Hurry!*'

A few more nights. A few more
hours working in darkness, and all
the watchman’s best efforts to guard
the church will have been in vain.

The church will have been stolen.
Thomas will have been the thief!

He moved through the gloom now,
to where a wooden ladder lay against
the side wall.. He placed the ladder
against the high gallery — the leper’s
gallery — and climbed it. He drew
the ladder up behind him and stepped
across the debris of wood, stone, and
leather to the farthest, tightest cor-
ner of the place. Bare faces of the
coarse ragstone watched the silent
church. No mortar joined the stones.
Their weight held them secure. They
supported nothing but themselves.

At Thomas’s muscular insistence,
one of them moved and came away
from the others.

With twilight gone but night not
yet fully descended, there was enough
gray light for him to see the face that
was carved there. He stared at the
leafy beard; the narrowed, slanting
eyes; the wide, flaring nostrils. He
saw how the cheeks would look, how

52

Fantasy & Science Fiction

the hair would become spiky, how he
would include the white and red ber-
ries of witch-thorn upon the twigs
that clustered round the face. . . .

All carved from the stone.

Thomas stared at Thom, and Thom
watched him by return, a cold smile
on cold stone lips. Voices whispered
in a sound realm that was neither in
the church nor in hell, but some-
where between the two, a shadow
land of voice, movement, and memory.

“I must be finished before the
others,” the stone man whispered.

‘‘You shall be,” said the mason, se-
lecting chisel and hammer from his
leather bag. ‘‘Be patient.”

‘‘I must be finished before the
magic ones!” Thorn insisted, and
Thomas sighed with irritation.

‘‘You shall be finished before the
magic ones. No one has agreed upon
the design of their faces yet.”

The ‘‘magic ones” were what Thom
called the Apostles. The twelve stat-
ues were laid out in the area of the
altar, bodies completed but faces still
smoothly blank. Why Thom feared
them as ‘‘magic” things, Thomas had
no idea.

‘‘To control them I must be here
first,” Thorn said.

‘‘I’ve already opened your eyes.
You can see how the other faces are
incomplete.”

‘‘Open them better,” said Thorn.

‘‘Very well.”

Thomas reached out to the stone
face. He touched the lips, the nose,

the eyes. He knew every prominence,
every rill, every chisel mark. The
grains of the stone were like pebbles
beneath his touch. He could feel the
hard-stone intrusion below the right
eye, where the rag would not chisel
well. There was a hardness, too, in
the crown of thorns, a blemish in the
soft rock that would have to be shaped
carfiilly to avoid cracking the whole
design. As his fingers ran across the
thorn man’s lips, cold, old breath
tickled him, the woodland man breath-
ing from his time in the long past. As
Thomas touched the eyes, he felt the
eyeballs move, impatient to see bet-
ter.

/ am in a wood grave, and a
thousand years lie between us. Thorn
had said. Hurry, hurry. Bring me
back.

In the deepening darkness, work-
ing by touch alone, Thomas chiseled
the face, bringing back the life of the
lost god. The sound of his work was a
sequence of shrill notes, stone music
in the still church. John Tagworthy,
outside by the fire, would be un-
aware of them. He might see a tallow
candle by its glow upon the clouds;
he might smell a fart from the distant
castle on a still summer’s night — but
the noises of man and nature had
long since ceased to bother his senses.

‘‘Thomas! Thomas Wyatt! Where
in God’s Name are you?”

The voice, hailing him from be-
low, so shocked Thomas that he
dropped his chisel, and in desperate-

Thom

53

ly trying to catch the tool he cut him-
self. He stayed silent for a long mo-
ment, cursing Jupiter and the sudden
hand of bright stars for their light.
The church was a place of shadows
against darkness. As he peered at the
north arch, he thought he could see a
man’s shape, hut it was only an unfin-
ished timber. He reached for the heavy
stone block that would cover the
stone face, and as he did so, the voice
came again.

“God take your gizzard, Thomas
Wyatt! It’s Simon. Miller’s son Si-
mon!’’

Thomas crept to the gallery’s edge
and peered over. The movement drew
attention to him, and Simon’s pale
features turned to look up at him. “I
heard you working. What are you
working on?’’

“Nothing,” Thomas lied. “Practic-
ing my craft on good stone with good
tools.”

“Show me the face, Thomas,” said
the younger man, and Thomas felt
the blood drain from his head. How
bad he known? Simon was twenty
years old, married for three years and
still, like Thomas himself, childless.
He was a freeman, of course; he
worked in his father’s mill but spent a
lot of his time in the fields, both his
family’s strips and the land belong-
ing to the castle. His great ambition,
though, was to be a Guildsman, and
masonry was his aspiration.

“What face?” Thomas whispered
uncomfortably.

“Send down the ladder,” Simon
urged, and reluctantly Thomas let the
wood scaffold down. The miller clam-
bered up to the gallery, breathing
hard. He smelled of garlic. He looked
eagerly about in the gloom. “Show
me the green man.”

“Explain what you mean.”

“Come on, Thomas! Everybody
knows you’re shaping the Lord of
Wood. I want to see him. 1 want to
know how he kwks.”

Thomas could hardly speak. His
heart alternately stopped and raced.
Simon’s words were like stab wounds.
pAferyhody knew! How could every-
body know?

Thom had spoken to him and to
him alone. He had sworn the mason
to silence and secrec 7 . For thirty days,
Thomas Wyatt had risked not just a
flogging, but almost certain hanging
for blasphemy; had risked his life for
the secret realm. Everybody knew*

“If everybody knows, why haven’t
1 been stopped?”

“1 don’t mean everyhodyr Simon
said as he felt blindly along the cold
walls for a sign of Thomas’s work. “I
mean the village. It’s spoken in whis-
pers. You’re a hero, Thomas. We know
what you’re doing, and for whom. It’s
exciting; it’s ri^bt. I’ve danced with
them at the forest cross. I’ve carried
the fire. I know how much power
remains here. I may take God’s name
in oath — but that’s safe to do. He has
no power over me, or any of us. He
doesn’t belong on Dancing Hill. Don’t

54

Fantasy & Science Fiction

worry, Thomas. WeTe your friends.

. . . Ah!”

Simon had found the loose stone.
It was heavy, and he grunted loudly as
he took its weight, letting it down
carefully to the floor. His breathing
grew soft as he reached for the stone
face. But Thomas could see how the
young man drew back, fingers ex-
tended yet not touching the precious
icon.

‘‘There’s magic in this, Thomas,”
Simon said in awe.

‘‘There’s skill — working by night,
working with fear — there’s skill
enough. I’ll say that.”

‘‘There’s magic in the face,” Si-
mon repeated. ‘‘It’s drawing power
from the earth below. It’s tapping the
Dancing Well. There’s water in the
eyes, Thomas. The dampness of the
old well. The face is brilliant,”

He struggled with the covering
stone and replaced it. ‘‘I wish it had
been me. I wish the green man had
chosen me. What an honor, Thomas.
Truly.”

Thomas Wyatt watched his friend
in astonishment. Was this really Si-
mon the miller’s son? Was this the
young man who had carried the Cross
every Resurrection Sunday for ten
years? Simon Miller! I've iianced with
them at the forest cross.

‘‘Whom have you danced with at
the crossroads, Simon?”

"'You know,” Simon whispered.
‘‘It’s alive, Thomas. It’s all alive. It’s
here, around us. It never went away.

The Lord of Wood showed us. . . .”

‘‘Thorn? Is that who you mean?”

‘‘Him!” Simon pointed toward the
hidden niche. ‘‘He’s been here for
years. He came the moment the monks
decided to build the church. He came
to save us, Thomas. And you’re help-
ing. I envy you. . . .”

Simon climbed down the ladder.
He was a fiirtive night shape, darting
to the high arch where an oak door
would soon be fitted, and out across
the mud-chumed hill, back round the
forest, to where the village was a dark
place, sleeping.

Thomas followed him down, plac-
ing the ladder back against the wall.
But on the open hill, almost in sight
of the watchman’s fire, he looked to
the north, across the forest, to where
the ridge way was a high band of dark-
ness against the pale gray glow of the
clouds. Below the ridgeway a fire
burned. He knew that he was looking
at the forest cross, where the stone
road of the Romans crossed the dis-
used track between Wudeherst and
Bidindenne villages. He had played
there as a child, despite being told
never ever to follow the broken stone
road.

There was a clearing at the de-
serted crossroads, and years ago he
and Simon Miller’s elder brother Wat
had often found the remains of fire
and feasts. Outlaws, of course, or the
night meals of the brave Saxon
knights who journeyed the hidden
forest trails until summoned to pro-

Thom

55

tcct the innocent. Any other reason
for the use of the place would have
been unthinkable. Why, there was
even an old gibbet, where forest jus-
tice was seen to be done. . . .

With a shiver, he remembered the
time when he had come to the clearing
and seen the swollen, grayish corpse
of a man swinging from that blackened
wood. Dark birds had been perched up-
on its shoulders. The face had had no
eyes, no nose, no flesh at all, and the
sight of the dead villain had stopped
him from ever going back again.

Now a fire burned at forest cross.
A fire like the fire of thirty nights ago,
when Thorn had sent the woman for
him. . . .

H e had woken to the sound of his
name being called from outside. His
wife, Beth, slept soundly on, turning
slightly on the straw-filled pallet. It
had been a warm night. He had tugged
on his britches and drawn a linen
shirt over his shoulders. Stepping out-
side, he had disturbed a hen, which
clucked angrily and stalked to anoth-
er resting place.

The woman was dressed in dark
garments. Her head was covered by a
shawl. She was young, though, and
the hand that reached for his was soft
and pale.

“Who are you?’’ he said, drawing
back. She had tugged at him. His re-
luctance to go with her was partly
fear, partly concern that Beth would

see him.

“lagus craagoth! Fiatha! Fiatbar
Her words were strange to Thomas.
They were like the hidden language
(which he had never been allowed to
learn), but were not of the same
tongue.

“Who are you?’’ he insisted, and
the woman sighed, still holding his
hand. At last she pointed to her bos-
om. Her eyes were bright beneath
the covering of the shawl. Her hair
was long, and he sensed it to be red.
like fire. “Anuth!” she said. She
pointed distantly. “Thorn. You come
with Thorn. With Anuth. Me. Come.
Thomas. Thomas to Thorn. Fiatha.'"'

She dragged at his hand, and he
began to run. The grip on his fingers
relaxed. She ran ahead of him, skirts
swirling, body hunched. He tripped
in the darkness, but she seemed able
to see every low-hanging branch and
raised beechwood root on the track.
They entered the wood. He concen-
trated on her fleeing shape, calling
occasionally for her to slow down.
Each time he went sprawling, she
came back, making clicking sounds
with her mouth, impatient, anxious.
She helped him to his feet but imme-
diately took off into the forest depths,
heedless of risk to life and limb.

All at once he heard voices, a
rhythmic beating, the crackfe of fire
. . . and the gentle sound of running
water. She had brought him to the
river. It wound through the forest,
and then across downland, toward

56

Fantasy & Science Fiction

the Avon.

Through the trees he saw the fire.
Anuth took his hand and pulled him,
not to the bright glade, but toward
the stream. As he walked, he stared at
the flames. Dark, human shapes passed
before the fire. They seemed to be
dancing. The heavy rhythm was like
the striking of one bone against an-
other. The voices were singing. The
language was familiar to him, but
incomprehensible.

Anuth dragged him past the firelit
glade. He came to the river, and she
slipped away. Surprised, he turned,
hissing her name. But she had van-
ished. He looked back at the water,
where starlight and the light of a
quarter moon made the surface seem
alive. There was a thick-trunked thorn
tree growing from the water’s edge.
The thorn tree trembled and shifted
in the evening wind.

The thorn tree grew before the
startled figure of Thomas Wyatt. It
rose; it straightened, it stretched.
Arms, legs, the gleam of moonlight
on eyes and teeth.

“Welcome, Thomas,’’ said the
thorn tree.

He took a step backward, fright-
ened by the apparition.

“Welcome where?’’

In front of him. Thorn laughed.
The man’s voice rasped, like a child
with the consumption. “Look around
you, Thomas. Tell me what you see.”

“Darkness. Woodland. A river,
stars. Night. Cold night.’’

“Take a breath, Thomas. What do
you smell?’’

“That same night. The river. Leaves
and dew. The fire, I can smell the fire.
And autumn. All the smells of au-
tumn.’’

“When did you last see and smell
these things?’’

Thomas, confused by the strange
midnight encounter, shivered in his
clothing. “Last night. I’ve always seen
and smelled them.’’

“Then welcome to a place you
know well. Welcome to the always
place. Welcome to an autumn night,
something that this land has always
known, and will always enjoy.’’

“But who are you?’’

“1 have been known by many
names.’’ He came close to the trem-
bling man. His hawthorn crown, with
its strange horns, was like a broken
tree against the clouds. His beard of
leaves and long grass rustled as he
spoke. His body quivered where the
night breeze touched the clothing of
nature that wound around his torso.
“Do you believe in God, Thomas?’’

“He died for us. His son. On the
Cross. He is the Almighty. . . .’’

Thom raised his arms. He held
them sideways. He was a great cross
in the cold night, and his crown of
thorns was a beast’s antlers. Old fears,
forgotten shudders, plagued the vil-
lager, Thomas Wyatt. Ancestral cries
mocked him. Memories of fire whis-
pered words in the hidden language;
confused his mind.

Thom

57

“I am the Cross of God,” said
Thorn. “Touch the wood; touch the
sharp thorns. . . .”

Thomas reached out. His actions
were not his own. His fingers touched
the cold flesh of the man's stomach.
He felt the ridged muscle in the cross-
beam, the bloody points of the thorns
that rose from the man’s head. He
nervously brushed the gnarled wood
of the thighs, and the thick oak branch
that rose between them, hot to his
fingers, nature’s passion, never dying.

“What do you want of me?” Thom-
as asked quietly.

The cross became a man again.
“To make my image in the new shrine.
To make that shrine my own. To
make it as mine forever, no matter
what manner of worship is performed
within its walls. ...”

Thomas stared at the Lord of
Wood. “Why not do it yourselP”

Thorn laughed. “I am in a wood
grave, Thomas, and a thousand years
lie between us. What you see before
you is an image of the god. A man.
The servant of the god. To bring me
back, my image must be made in
stone. Hurry, Thomas. Hurry'. Bring
me back to the world.”

“Tell me what I must do. ...”

Everybody knew, Simon had said.
Everybody in the village. It was .spok-
en in whispers. Thomas was a hero.
Everybody knew. Everybody but
Thomas Wyatt.

“Why have they kept it from me?”

he murmured to the night. He had
huddled up inside his jacket, and
folded his body into the tight shelter
of a wall bastion. The encounter with
Simon had shaken him badly.

From here he could see north to
Bidindenne across the gloomy shape-
lessness of the forest. The castle, and
the clustered villages of its demesne,
were behind him. He saw only stars,
pale clouds, and the flicker of fire,
where strange worship occurred.

Why did the fire, in this midnight
forest, call to him so much? Why was
there such comfort in the thought
of the warm glow from the piled
branches, and the noisy chatter, and
laughter, of those who clustered in
its shadowy light? He had danced
about a fire often enough: on mid-
summer eve, and at the passing of the
day of All Hallows. But those fires
were in the village bounds. His soul
fluttered, a delighted bird, at the
thought pf the woodland fire. The
smell of autumn, the touch of night’s
dew, the closeness to the souls of
tree and plant; timeless eyes would
watch the dancers. They were a shared
life with the forest.

Why had he been kept in isola-
tion? Everybody knew. The villagers
who carried the bleeding, dying Christ
through the streets on Resurrection
Sunday . . . were they now carrying
images of boar and stag and hare
about the fire? He — Thomas — was a
hero. They spoke of him in whispers.
Everybody knew of his work. When

58

Fantasy & Science Fiction

had they been taken back to the be-
liefs of old? Had Thorn appeared to
each of them as well?

Why didn’t he share the new be-
lief with them? It was the same belief.
He used his craft; they danced for the
gods.

As if he were of the same cold
stone-stuff upon which he worked,
the others kept him distant, watched
him from afar. Did Beth know? Thom-
as shivered. The hours passed. He
could feel the gibbet rope around his
neck. Only one word out of place,
one voice overheard — one whisper
to the wrong man, and Thomas Wyatt
would be a gray thing, slung by its
neck, prey for dark birds. Eyes, nose,
the flesh of the face. Every feature
that he pecked for Thorn with ham-
mer and chisel would be pecked from
him by hard, wet beaks.

From the position of the moon,
Thomas realized he had been sitting
by the church for several hours. John
the watchman had not walked past.
Now that he thought of it, Thomas
could hear the man’s snoring, coming
as if from a far place.

Thomas eased himself to his feet.
He lifted his bag gently to his shoul-
der, overcautious about the ring and
strike of iron tools within the leather.
But as he walked toward the path, he
heard movement in the church. The
watchman snored distantly.

It must be Simon, Thomas thought,
back for another look at the face of
the woodland god.

irritated, and still confused, Thom-
as stepped into the church again and
looked toward the gallery. The ladder
was against the balcony. He could
hear the stone being moved. There
was a time of silence; then the stone
was put back. A figure moved to the
ladder and began to descend.

Thomas watched in astonishment.
He stepped into greater darkness as
the priest looked round, then hauled
the ladder back to its storage place.
All Thomas heard was the sound of
the priest’s laughter. The man passed
through the gloom, long robe swirl-
ing through the dust and debris.

F

Lven the priest knew! And that made
no sense at all. Thomas slept restless-
ly, listening to the soft breathing of
his wife. Several times the urge to
wake her, to speak to her, made him
whisper her name and shake her
shoulders. But she slumbered on. At
sunrise they were up together, but he
was so tired he could hardly speak.
They ate hard bread, moistened with
cold, thin gruel. Thomas tipped the
last of their ale into a clay mug. The
drink was meatier than the gruel, but
he swallowed the sour liquid and felt
its warming tingle.

“The last of the ale,’’ he said rue-
fully, tapping the barrel.

“You’ve been too busy to brew,’’
Beth said from the table. “And I’m
not skilled.’’ She was wrapped in a
heavy wool cloak. The fire was a dead

Thorn

59

place in the middle of the small room.
Gray ash drifted in the light from the
roof hole.

“But no aler He banged his cup
on the barrel in frustration. Beth
looked up at him, surprised by his
anger.

“We can get ale from the miller.
We’ve done it before and repaid him
from our own brewing. It’s not the
end of the world.’’

“I’ve had no time to brew,’’ Thom-
as said, watching Beth through hood-
ed, rimmed eyes. “I’ve been working
on something of importance. I ex-
pect you know what.’’

She shrugged. “Why would I know?
You never talk about it.’’ Her pale
face was sweet. She was as pretty
now as when he had married her;
fuller in body, yes, and wiser in the
ways of life. That they were childless
had not affected her spirit. She had
allowed the wise women to dose her
with herbs and bitter spices, to take
her to strange standing stones and
stranger foreigners. She had been
seen by apothecaries and doctors, and
Thomas had worked in their fields to
pay them. Thomas had been exam-
ined too, and he had worked even
harder.

And of course, they prayed.

Now Thomas felt too old to care
about children. Life was good with
Beth, and their sadness had drawn
them closer than most couples he
knew.

“Everybody knows what I’m work-

ing on,’’ he said bitterly.

“Well, I don’t,’’ she replied. “But
I’d like to. . . .’’

Perhaps he had been unfair to her.
Perhaps she, too, was kept apart from
the village’s shared knowledge. He
lied to her. “You must not say a word
to anyone. But I’m working on the
face of ... of Jesus.”

Beth was delighted. “Oh Thomas!
That’s wonderful. I’m so proud of
you.” She came round to him and
hugged him. Outside, Master Mason
Tobias Craven called out his name,
among others, and he trudged up to
the church on Dancing Hill.

His work was uneven and lazy that
day. The chisel slipped; the stone
splintered; the hammer caught his
thumb twice. He was distracted and
deeply concerned by what he had
seen the night before. When the priest
came to the church, to walk through
the bustle of activity and inspect the
day’s progress, Thomas watched him
carefully, hoping for some sign of rec-
ognition. But the man just smiled and
nodded, then carried the small light
of Christ to the altar, where he said
silent prayers for an hour or more.

At sundown, Thomas felt his body
shaking. When the priest called the
craftsmen into the vestry for wine,
Thomas stood by the door, staring at
the dark features of the Man of God.
The priest, handing him his cup, mere-
ly said, “God be with you, Thomas.”
It was what he always said.

60

Fantasy & Science Fiction

Tobias Craven came over to him.
His face was gray with dust, his cloth-
ing heavy with dirt. His dialect was
difficult for Thomas to understand,
and Thomas was suspicious of the
gesture anyway. Would he now dis-
cover that the foreigners, too, knew
of the face of the woodland diety, half
completed behind its door of stone?

“Your work is good, Thomas. Not
today, perhaps, but usually. I’ve
watched you.”

“Thank you.”

“At first I was reluctant to allow
you to work as a mason among us. It
was at the priest’s insistence: one lo-
cal man to work in every craft. It
seemed a superstitious idea to me.
But now I’m glad. I approve. It’s an
enlightened gesture, I realize, to al-
low local men, not of the Guilds, to
display their skills. And your skill is
remarkable.”

Thomas swallowed hard. “To be a
Guildsman would be a great honor.”

Master Tobias looked crestfallen.
“Aye, but alas. I wish I had seen your
work when you were fifteen, not twen-
ty-five. But I can write a note for you,
to get better work in the area.”

“Thank you,” Thomas said again.

“Have you traveled, Thomas?”

“Only to Glaestingeberia. I made
a pilgrimage in the third year of my
marriage.”

“Glaestingeberia,” Master Tobias
repeated, smiling. “Now that is a fine
abbey. I’ve seen it just once. Myself, I
worked at Euerwik and at Caerleoil,

on the Minsters. I was not a Master
then, of course. But that was cher-
ished work. Now I’m a Guild Master,
building tiny churches in remote
places. But it gives fulfillment to the
soul, and one day 1 shall die and be
buried in the shadow of a place I have
built myself. There is satisfaction in
the thought.”

“May that not be for many years.”

“Thank you, Thomas.’’ Tobias
drained his cup. “And now, from
God’s work to Nature’s work—”

Thomas paled. Did he mean wood-
land worship? The Master Mason
winked at him.

“A good night’s sleep!”

When the others had gone, Thom-
as slipped out of the sheltering wood-
land and made his way back to the
church. The watchman was fussing
with his fire. There was less cloud
this evening, and the land, though
murky, was quite visible for many
miles around.

Inside the church, Thomas looked
up at the gallery. Uncertainty made
him hesitate; then he shook his head.
“Until I understand better. . . .” he
murmured, and made to turn for
home.

“Thomas!” Thorn called. “Hurry,
Thomas.”

Strange green light played off the
stone of the church. It darted around
him like will-o’-the-wisp. Fingers
prodded him forward, but when he
turned, there was nothing but shadow.

Thom

61

Again Thorn called to him.

With a sigh, Thomas placed the
ladder against the gallery and climbed
up to the half-finished face. Thorn
smiled at him. The narrow eyes spar-
kled with moisture. The leaves and
twigs that formed his hair and beard
seemed to rustle. The stone strained
to move.

“Hurry, Thomas. Open my eyes
better.’’

“I’m frightened,’’ the man said.
“Too many people know what I’m
doing.’’

“Carve me. Shape my face. I must
be here before the others. Hurryr

The lips of the forest god twitched
with the ghostly figure’s anguish.
Thomas reached out to the cold stone
and felt its stillness. It was just a carv-
ing. It had no life. He imagined the
voice. It was just a man who had told
him to make the carving, a man
dressed in woodland disguise. Until
he knew he was safe, he would not
risk discovery. He climbed back down
the ladder. Thorn called to him, but
Thomas ignored the cry.

At his house a warm fire burned in
the middle of the room, and an iron
pot of thick vegetable broth steamed
above it. There was fresh ale from the
miller, and Beth was pleased to see
him home so early. She stitched old
clothes, seated on a low stool, close
to the wood fire. Thomas ate, then
drank ale, leaning on the table, his
mason’s tools spread out before him.
The ale was strong and soon went to

his head. He felt dizzy, sublimely de-
tached from his body. The warmth,
the sensation of drunkenness, his full
stomach — all of these things made
him drowsy, and slowly his head sank
to his arms. . . .

A cold blast of air on his neck
roused him. His name was being
called. At first he thought it was Beth,
but soon, as he surfaced from pleas-
ant oblivion, he recognized the rasp-
ing voice of Thorn.

The fire burned high, fanned by
the draft from the open door. Beth
still sat on her stool, but was motion-
less and silent, staring at the flames.
He spoke her name, but she didn’t
respond. Thorn call to him again, and
he looked out at the dark night. He
felt a sudden chill of fear. He gath-
ered his tools into his bag and step-
ped from the house.

Thorn stood in the dark street, a
tall figure, his horns of wood black
against the*sky. There was a strong
smell of earth about him. He moved
toward Thomas, leaf-clothes rustling.

“The work is unfinished, Thomas.’’

“I’m afraid for my life. Too many
people know what I’m doing.’’

“Only the finishing of the face
matters. Your fear is of no conse-
quence. You agreed to work for me.
You must go to the church. Now.’’

“But if I’m caught!’’

“Then another will be found. Go
back to the work, Thomas. Open my
eyes properly. It must be done.’’

He turned from Thom and sighed.

62

Fantasy & Science Fiction

There was something wrong with
Beth, and it worried him, but the per-
suasive power of the night figure was
too strong to counter, and he began
to walk wearily toward the church.
Soon the village was invisible behind
him. Soon the church was a sharp re-
lief against the night sky. The watch-
man's fire burned high, and the au-
tumn night was sweet with the smell
of woodsmoke. The watchman him-
self seemed to be dancing, or so
Thomas thought at first. He strained
to see better, and soon realized that
John had fallen asleep and set light
to his clothing. He was brushing
and beating at his leggings, his grunts
of alarm like the evening call of a
boar.

The moment’s humor passed, and
a sudden anger took Thomas, Thom's
words were like knife cuts to his
pride: his fear was of no conse-
quence. Only the work of carving
mattered. He would be caught, and it
would be of no consequence. He
would swing, slowly strangling, from
the castle gallows, and it would be of
no consequence. Another would be
found!

“No!” he said aloud. “No. I will
not work for Thorn tonight. Tonight
is my night. Damn Thorn. Damn the
face. Tomorrow I will open its eyes,
but not now.”

And with a last glance at the watch-
man, who had extinguished the fire
and settled down again, he turned
back to the village

ISut as he approached his house,
aware of the glow of the fire through
the small window, his anger changed
to a sudden dread. He began to feel
sick. He wanted to cry out, to alert
the village. A voice in his head urged
him to turn and go back to the night
wood. His house, once so welcom-
ing, threatened him deeply. It seemed
surrounded by an aura, detached from
the real world.

He walked slowly to the small
window. He could hear the crackle
and spit of the flames. Woodsmoke
was stong in the air. Somewhere, at
the village bounds, two dogs barked.

The feeling of apprehension in
him grew, a strangling weed that made
him dizzy. But he looked through the
window. And he did not faint, nor cry
out, at what he saw within, though a
part of his spirit, part of his life, flew
away from him then, abandoning him,
making him wither and age; making
him die a little.

Thorn stood with his back to the
Are. His mask of autumn leaves and
spiky wood was bright and eerie —
dark hair curled,, from beneath the
mask. His arms were wound around
the creeper and twine, and twigs of
oak, elm, and lime were laced upon
this binding. Save for these few frag-
ments of nature's clothing, he was
naked. The black hair on his body
gave him the appearance of a burned

Thom

63

oak stump, gnarled and weathered by
years. His manhood was a smooth,
dark branch, cut to the length of
firewood.

Beth was on her knees before
him, her weight taken on her elbows.
Her skirts were on the floor beside
her. The yellow flames cast a flicker-
ing glow upon her plump, pale flesh,
and Thomas half closed his eyes in
despair. He managed to stifle his
scream of anguish, but he could not
stop himself from watching.

And he uttered no sound, despite
the pain, as Thorn dropped down
upon the waiting woman.

As he ran to the church, the watch-
man woke, then stood up, picking up
his heavy staff. Thomas Wyatt knocked
him down, then drew a flaming wood
brand from the brazier. Toolbag on
his shoulder, he entered the church
and held the fire high, the ladder was
against the balcony. Pale features
peered down at him, and the ladder
began to move. But Simon, the mill-
er’s son, was not quite quick enough.
Casting the burning wood aside,
Thomas leapt for the scaffold and be-
gan to ascend.

“I was just looking, Thomas,” Si-
mon cried, then tried to fling the
ladder back. Thomas clutched at the
balcony, then hauled himself to safe-
ty. He said no word to Simon, who
backed against the wall where the
loose stone was fitted.

“You mustn’t touch him, Thomas.”

In the darkness, Simon’s eyes were
gleaming orbs of fear. Thomas took
him by the shoulders and flung him
to the balcony, then used a stone to
strike him.

“No, Thomas! No!”

The younger man had toppled over
the balcony. He held on for dear life,
fingers straining to hold his weight.

“Tricked!” screamed Thomas. “All
a trick! Duped! Cuckolded! All of you
knew. All of you knewr

“No, Thomas. In the Name of the
God, it wasn’t like that!”

His hammer was heavy. He swung
it high, brought it down hard. Sim-*
on’s left hand vanished, and the man’s
scream of pain was deafening.

“She had no other way!” he cried
hysterically. “No, Thomas! No! She
chose it! She chose it! Thom’s gift to
you both.”

The hammer swung. Crushed fin-
gers left bloody marks upon the bal-
cony. Simon crashed to the floor be-
low and was still.

“All of you knew!” Thomas Wyatt
cried. He wrenched the loose stone
away. Thorn watched him from the
blackness through his half-opened
eyes. Thomas could see every feature,
every line. The mouth stretched in a
mocking grin. The eyes narrowed;
the nostrils flared.

“Fool. Fool!” whispered the stone
man. “But you cannot stop me now.”

Thomas slapped his hand against
the face. The blow stung his flesh. He
reached for his chisel, placed the sharp

64

Fantasy & Science Fiction

tool against one of the narrow eyes.

“NO!” screeched Thorn. His face
twisted and turned. The stone of
the church shuddered and groaned.
Thomas hesitated. A green glow came
from the features of the diety. The
eyes were wide with fear, the lips
drawn back below the mask. Thomas
raised his hammer.

“NO!” screamed the head again.
Arms reached from the wall. The
light expanded. Thomas backed ofif,
terrified by the specter that had ap-
peared there, a ghastly green version
of Thorn himself, a creature half
ghost, half stone, tied to the wall of
the church but reaching out from the
cold rock, reaching for Thomas Wyatt,
reaching to kill him.

Thomas raised the chisel, raised
the hammer. He ran back to the face
of Thorn and, with a single, vicious
blow, drove a gouging furrow through
the right eye.

The church shuddered. A block of
stone fell from the high wall, striking
Thomas on the shoulder. The whole
gallery vibrated with Thorn’s pain
and anger.

Again he struck. The left eye crack-
ed, a great split in the stone. Damp-
ness oozed from the wound. The
scream from the wall was deafening.
Below the gallery, yellow light glim-
mered: the watchman, staring up to
where Thomas performed his deed of
vengeance.

Then a crack appeared down the
whole side of the church. The entire

gallery where Thomas had worked
dropped by a man’s height, and Thom-
as was flung to the parapet. He strug-
gled to keep his balance, then went
over the wall, scrabbling at the air.
Thom’s stone-scream was a night-
mare sound. Air was cool on the ma-
son’s skin. A stone pedestal broke his
fall. Broke his back.

T

■ he village woke to the sound of
the priest’s terrible scream. He stum-
bled from the Wyatts’ hous^, hands
clutching at his eyes, trying to staunch
the flow of blood. He scrabbled at the
wood mask, stripping away the thorn,
the oak, the crisp brown leaves, ex-
posing dark hair, a trimmed dark
beard.

The priest — Thorn’s priest-
turned blind eyes to the church. Na-
ked, he began to stagger and stumble
toward the hill. Behind him the vil-
lagers followed, torches burning in
the night.

Thomas lay across the marble pil-
lar, a few feet from the ground. There
was no sensation in his body, though
his lungs expanded to draw air into
his chest. He lay like a sacrificial vic-
tim, arms above his head, legs limp.
The watchman circled him in silence.
The church was still.

Soon the priest approached him,
hands stretched out before him. the
pierced orbs of his eyes glistened as
he leaned close to Thomas Wyatt.

“Are you dying, then?”

Thom

65

“I died a few minutes ago,” Thom-
as whispered. The priest’s hands on
his face were gentle. Blood dripped
from the savaged eyes.

‘‘Another will come,” Thorn said.
‘‘There are many of us. The work will
be completed. The Lord of Wood di-
rects us. No church will stand that is
not a shrine to the true faith. The im-
age of the Green will be in every one
of them. The spirit of this Christ will
find few havens in England.”

‘‘Beth ” Thomas whispered. He

could feel the bird of life struggling
to escape him. The watchman’s torch
was already dimming.

Thorn raised Thomas’s head, a fin-

ger across the dry lips. ‘‘You should
not have seen,” said the priest. ‘‘It
was a gift for a gift. Our skills, the way
of ritual, of fertility, for your skill
with stone. Another will come to re-
place me. Another will be found to
finish your work. But there will be
no child for you now. No child for
Beth.”

‘‘What have 1 done?” Thomas whis-
pered. ‘‘By all that’s Holy, what have 1
done?”

From above him, from a thousand
miles away, came the ring of chisel
on stone.

‘‘Hurry,” he heard Thorn call into
the night. “Hurry!”

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ct

Fantasy & Science Fiction

When the Martians come, we know whaVs going on at the
Department of State and on Pennsylvania Avenue, bat what's
going to happen on the talk shows and on Seventh Avenue, spe-
cifically at the Carnegie Delicatessen? Fred Pohl tells us in a
rare and welcome short story.

Saucety

BY

FREDERIK POHL

T

■I he young talent booker behind
the desk was slim, quick, heavily eye-
shadowed, and, Boccanegra decided,
quite ugly, and he hated her.

He didn’t much like her office
either. It was tiny and bare. It didn’t
do justice to one of the richest televi-
sion networks in the world, and be-
sides, the woman was watching the
wrong program. All of this displeased
Marchese Boccanegra. Not that he
cared that somebody on the NBC
payroll was sneaking looks at an of-
fering of CBS, but the program the
confounded woman was watching was
a pickup from the spaceship Algon-
quin, on its way back from Mars with
a bunch of those equally confounded
Martians aboard. Nasty-looking things!
People said they looked a little bit
like seals, but seals at least didn’t
have spindly legs. No, they were defi-
nitely hideous, although it wasn’t their

looks that made Boccanegra dislike
them.

The woman giggled. “They’re
cute,” she said, to Boccanegra or to
no one.

Boccanegra sighed — silently. He
sat erect in his far from comfortable
wooden chair, his hands folded re-
posefiilly on his lap, his expression
unchanging and his eyes half closed.
He could see her well enough. Her
nose was hardly more than a pug, and
her teeth, although white enough and
bright enough, were unacceptably
long. She was at least as unattractive
as the Martians, not to mention that
she wasn’t treating him right. First
there had been forty-five minutes in
the waiting room outside, with all
the jugglers and struggling comics
and publicity agents for people who
had just written a book. Then, when
she did let him in, most of her atten-

Saucery

67

tion was on the TV screen, when
what she should properly have been
doing was to decide exactly when—
Boccanegra did not allow himself to
say “whether” — he would appear
again on the “Today” show.

Boccanegra didn’t realize his half-
closed eyes had closed all the way
until he heard her say irritably,
“What’s the matter, are you asleep?”

He opened his eyes slowly and
gazed at her with the unfathomable
look that had always gone so well on
television. “I am not asleep,” he said
austerely.

She was looking less attractive than
ever, because she was scowling at
him, but at least she had turned
off the television set. “I hope you
wouldn’t fall asleep on the air,” she
sniffed. “Sorry about that, but 1 had to
watch. Anyway, how do you say your
name?”

“Mar-KAY-say BOH-ka-NAY-gra.”

“You can really get screwed up
trying to say those foreign names on
the air,” she said pensively. “What’s
that first part, a title or a name?”

He allowed himself to twinkle. “It
is the name my parents bestowed on
me,” he said, not truthfully. “It does
in fact mean ‘marquis,’ but my family
have not used a title for more than a
hundred years.” That was not untruth-
ful, technically, for they certainly
hadn’t. Or before then, either, be-
cause grape growers hardly ever had
one.

“In any case,” he went on smooth-

ly, “I don’t know if you have had an
opportunity to study my sitrep. This
latest contact—”

“What in the world is a sitrep?”
“The situation report, that is. It
details my latest contact with the
Great Galactics, which is actually far
more exciting than any I have expe-
rienced before. 1 was meditating be-
fore the fireplace in my summer home
at Aspen, when suddenly the flames
of the fire seemed to die away and a
great golden presence emerged to—”
‘Tou told me,” she said. “They
talked to you. What I need to find out
is what they said about the Martians.”

“Martians? My dear woman, they
aren’t Martians\ The Great Galactics
come from so far beyond Mars that
they are in another universe entirely,
which we call the Theta band of
consciousness— ”

“Uh-uh. The people aren’t inter-
ested in other universes right now,
Mr. — ” she glanced at her notes and
pronounced it, for a wonder, almost
correctly — “Boccanegra. I’m book-
ing a particular show. I’ve got one
three-and-a-half-minute spot open,
and the show’s about Mars. We’ve al-
ready got Sagan, Bradbury, and some
woman from NASA, and we need a—
we need somebody like you, I mean.
Now, you’ve had other experiences
with flying saucers, right?”

He said patiently, “ ‘Flying sauc-
ers’ is a newspaper term. I don’t care
for it. In my book. Ultimate Truth:
The Amazing Riddle Behind the *Sau-

68

Fantasy & Science Fiction

cer' Flaps, I expose the falsity of the
so-called flying saucer stories. On the
Theta level of reality, what we human
beings perceive as ‘saucers’ are real-

ly_”

“No, but, whatever they were, did
any of them come from Mars?’*

“Of course not!’’ Then he added
hastily, “Naturally, on the other hand,
most of the so-called Martian myster-
ies are explained in my book — as,
for example, the huge stone sculp-
ture of a human face that appears on
Mars in—”

“No, no, no face. We’ve already
got the guy who wrote the book do-
ing that on the 8:18 spot on Tuesday.
Anything else about Mars?” she asked,
glancing at her watch.

“No,” said Bpccanegra, coming to
a decision. He had been in the busi-
ness long enough to know when to
cut his losses. She wasn’t buying. He
would not do the “Today” show on
the basis of this interview. All he
could do was to try to keep the lines
open for the future.

As she was opening her mouth for
the don’t-call-us-we’ll-call-you, he
widened his eyes and said quickly,
“Oh, just a moment, do you mean
next week? 1 am so terribly sorry! My
staff must have got the dates wrong,
because next week I have to be at a
conference in Washington.” He gave
the woman a meager, forbearing smile
as he stood up and shrugged apolo-
getically.

As he picked up the gray suede

gloves and gold-handled walking
stick, the woman said, “Well, ac-
tually-”

“No, I insist,” Boccanegra cut in.
“It’s entirely my fault. Good day!”
And he was gone, not even pausing to
admire his reflection in the full-
length mirror on the back of her
door. It was just as it ought to be any-
way. Tall, spare figure in the severely
cut black suit, the moon-white stock
gleaming at his throat and the white
carnation in his lapel, he was exactly
as striking and vaguely sinister a spec-
tacle as he set out to be. Color, the
well-meaning had said to him. IVs all
color on the TV now. And it was; but
for exactly that reason, Marchese Boc-
canegra had stood out in his stark
black and white on the talk shows
and panels.

Had once, anyway. There weren’t
as many of them anymore. You could
even go further: There practically
were none at all, and the big reason
for that was the Martians. How they
had ruined it for everybody!

Passing through the waiting room,
Boccanegra gave the receptionist a
quick four-flngered wave — it was
the benediction and greeting of the
Great Galactics, as he had demon-
strated it for more than thirty years in
the field. But she didn’t seem to rec-
ognize it. No matter. Boccanegra took
the carnation from his buttonhole
and laid it caressingly before her (a
receptionist who remembered you
could make all the difference!) be-

Saucery

69

fore pacing out to the hall, where he
tapped the elevator button with the
head of his cane.

Only when the door had opened
and he stepped inside did he say in
surprise, “Anthony! 1 didn’t expect to
see you here!”

The month was May and the day
warm. But Anthony Makepeace Moore
wore full regalia, fur-collared coat
and black slouch hat. His expression
was more startled than pleased — so
was Boccanegra’s own — but the two
men greeted each other with the ef-
fusion of colleagues and competitors.
“Marchese!” Moore cried, wringing
his hand. “It’s been too long, hasn’t
it? I suppose you’ve been granting in-
terviews, too?’’

Boccanegra permitted himself a
wry smile. “I had intended to appear
on the Today’ show,’’ he said, “but
the appearance they wanted me to
make is unfortunately out of the ques-
tion. And you?’’

“Oh, nothing as glamorous as the
Today’ show,’’ smiled Moore. “I was
just taping a few radio bits for the
network news.’’

“I’ll be sure to listen,’’ Boccane-
gra promised, the generosity of his
tone almost completely concealing
the envy. The network! It had been at
least two years since any network
news organization had cared to have
Marchese Boccanegra say anything
for their^ listeners — and now that
they’d done Moore, it would certain-
ly be awhile before they wanted any-

one else. There was a time — a pretty
long-ago time, now — when the two
of them had done publicity appear-
ances together. But that was when
the alien-encounter business was
booming. The fact was, now there
just wasn’t enough to share.

So Boccanegra was surprised when
Moore looked at his aviator’s watch
with the three dials and said diffi-
dently, “I suppose you’re in a great
hurry to get to your next engage-
ment?’’

“As a matter of fact,’’ Boccanegra
began, and then hesitated. He fin-
ished, “As a matter of fact. I’m a bit
hungry. 1 was thinking of a sandwich
somewhere — would you care to join
me?”

Moore courteously bowed him
out first as the elevator reached the
ground floor. “I’d like that a lot, Mar-
chese,’’ he said warmly. “Anyplace in
particular? Something ethnic, per-
haps? You know how I like odd foods,
and we don’t get much of them in
Oklahoma.’’

“I know just the place!’’ cried
Boccanegra.

The very place was the Carnegie
Delicatessen, half a dozen blocks from
the RCA Building, and both of them
had known it well.

As they walked up Seventh Avenue,
people glanced at them curiously.
Where Boccanegra was tall, hawklike,
and aloof, Anthony Makepeace Moore
was short and round. He wore bushy

70

Fantasy & Science Fiction

white sideburns on a head that had
no other hair but bushy white eye-
brows. He would have been plump
even in a bathing suit — so one sup-
posed; no one had ever seen him in
one — but his standard costume —
winter, spring, and fall — was a bulky
coat trimmed with what might well
pass for ermine. It made him appear
even rounder. As much as anything,
Moore resembled a fat leprechaun.

What he wore in the summer was
quite different, because in the sum-
mer he spent his time on the five
hundred acres of his Eudorpan Astral
Retreat, just outside of Enid, Okla-
homa. There he wore the robes of the
Eudorpan Masters. So did everyone
else on the premises, though not all
in the same colors. Seekers (the pay-
ing guests) wore lavender. Adepts (the
staff) wore gold. Moore himself, tak-
ing a cue from the pope at Rome,
never appeared in anything but spot-
less and freshly laundered white.

At the delicatessen, Boccanegra
stepped courteously aside to let
Moore go first through the revolving
door. It was midaftemoon, but there
was a short line waiting, and the two
men exchanged amused glances.
“Fame,” whispered Moore, and Boc-
canegra nodded.

- “Your picture used to hang right
there, next to the fan,” he said.

“And yours over by the door,”
Moore agreed. “And now they don’t
even remember who we are.” The
cashier, overhearing, looked at them

curiously, but no identification came
before their table was ready.

When Moore took off his coat, he
revealed a red and white checked
sport shirt underneath. “No robes
today?” Boccanegra asked. The only
answer he got was a frosty look. Then
Moore began to pore over the menu,
and his expression softened.

“That good old pastrami,” he said
sentimentally. “Remember the tons
of it at WOR? And Long John begging
us to take some home because there’d
be a new batch the next night?”

“That’s where we met, isn’t it?”
Boccanegra asked, knowing exactly
that it was. The all-night Long John
Nebel show had, in fact, given both of
them their start in the alien-contact
industry. “Remember the Mystic Bar-
ber, with that tinfoil crown he always
wore?”

“And Barney and Betty Hill, and
the Two Men in Black, and Will Our-
sler, and — oh God, Marco,” Moore
said, rolling his eyes, “we didn’t know
when we had it good, did we? We
were so young!”

“And no damned Martians to take
people’s minds off us,” Boccanegra
grumbled. “Are you ready to order?”

They passed reminiscences back
and forth while they were waiting for
their food to arrive — Long John and
his wonderful scams, the revolving
Empire State Building, the bridge off
the RCA tower and all; and not only
Long John but every other broadcast
medium. They all seemed willing to

Saucery

71

give airtime to talk about intelli-
gences from other worlds — network
TV and little local radio stations
where you had to crouch between
record turntables and hand a single
microphone around the guests.

“We were so young/’ Moore said
dreamily, pouring ketchup on his
french fries.

“Remember Lonny Zamorra?’* Boc-
canegra asked.

“And the spaceport at Giant
Rock?*’

“And the mutilated cows? And the
car engines that got stopped? And, oh
God, the Bermuda Triangle! Good
Lord,’’ said Boccanegra earnestly, “I
can think of at least a dozen people
that lived for years on just the Ber-
muda Triangle. You know what they
were getting for a single lecture} Not
counting the books and the work-
shops and —’’ He trailed off.

“And everything,’’ said Moore som-
berly. They ate in silence for a mo-
ment, thinking of the days when the
world had been so eager to hear what
they had to say.

In those days, everyone wanted to
give them a voice. Radio, television,
press coverage; there was nothing
anyone might say about flying sau-
cers, or men from another planet, or
mysterious revelations received in a
trance, or astral voyages to other
worlds that did not get an audience.
A paying audience. Both Moore and
Boccanegra had had their pick of col-
lege lecture dates and handsome hon-

oraria — enough for Boccanegra to
start The Press of Ultimate Truth,
Inc., to print his books; enough for
Moore to buy the tract of played-out
Oklahoma grazing land that became
the Eudorpan Astral Retreat. Both
had flourished wildly. There was no
end to the customers for Boccane-
gra’s books, more than fifteen titles
in all, or to the Seekers who gladly
paid a month’s wages to spend a
week in their lavender robes, eating
lentils and raw onions out of EAR’S
wooden bowls (and sneaking off to
the truck stop just outside the retreat
for hamburgers and sinful beer), and
listening worshipfully to Moore’s reve-
lations.

When the last of the pastrami and
fries were gone, Moore leaned back
and signaled for a coffee refill. He
looked thoughtfully at Boccanegra
and said, “I’ve been looking forward
to your new book. Is it out yet?’’

“It’s been* held up,’’ Boccanegra
explained. Actually it was a year over-
due, and the new book wasn’t going
to appear until the bills for the last
one were paid, and that didn’t seem
likely in the near future. “Of course,’’
he added with as near a smile as he
ever allowed himself in public, “the
timing might be better later on. It’s
all Martians now, isn’t it?’’

Moore was startled. “Are you writ-
ing a book about the Martians?’’ he
demanded.

“Me? Of course not,’’ Boccanegra
said virtuously. “Oh, there are charla-

72

Fantasy & Science Fiction

tans who’ll be doing that, no doubt.
I’ll bet there are a dozen of the old
guard trying to change their stories
around to cash in on the Martians.”

“Shocking,” Moore agreed with a
straight face.

“Anyway, I’ve about decided to
take a sort of sabbatical. This fad will
run its course. Perhaps in a few
months it’ll be the right time for my
book, which tells how the Great Ga-
lactics have provided us with the ge-
netic code that explains all of the
mysteries of—”

“Yeah,” said Moore, staring into
space. His expression did not suggest
that he liked what he was seeing.

Boccanegra studied his ancient ad-
versary. It didn’t look like a very good
time to bring up the sudden inspira-
tion that had come to him in the ele-
vator. Moore sounded depressed.

But there would never be a better
time, so Boccanegra plunged in. “I’ve
been thinking,” he said.

Moore focused on him. ‘Tes?”

Boccanegra waved a deprecating
hand. “I’ll probably have some free
time for a while. Perhaps the whole
summer. So, I wonder — would you
be interested in having me as a sort of
guest lecturer at the retreat?” Moore’s
eyes widened under the bushy eye-
brows, but he didn’t speak. Boccane-
gra went on ingratiatingly, “Since I’m
at liberty, I mean. Of course, we’d
have to make some special arrange-
ment. It wouldn’t be appropriate for
me to be there just as part of your

staff. Some new ]x>sition? Perhaps 1
could wear black robes? Naturally the
financial arrangements could be work-
ed out — professional courtesy and
all that,” he finished with a twinkle.

The twinkle dried up. Moore’s ex-
pression was stony. “No chance,” he
said.

Boccanegra felt the muscles in his
throat begin to tighten. “No chance, ’’
he repeated, trying to keep the sud-
den anger out of his voice. “Well, if
it’s the robes—”

“It isn’t the robes,” said Anthony
Makepeace Moore.

“No, it wouldn’t be that. 1 sup-
pose, since you and I have been pret-
ty much opponents for so long—”

“Marco,” said Moore sadly, “I don’t
give a shit about that. I can’t take you
on at the retreat because there isn’t
going to be any retreat this year. I
haven’t got the customers. This time
I should have forty or fifty people reg-
istered — some years I’ve had a hun-
dred! You know how many I’ve got
now? Two. And one of those is only a
maybe.” He shook his head. “The
whole thing’s down the tube if some-
thing good doesn’t happen. The bank’s
been on my back about the mortgage,
and they put in that damn interstate,
and even the truck stop’s losing
money every week—”

Boccanegra was startled. “I didn’t
know you owned the truck stop!”

’Well, this time next month 1 prob-
ably won’t. They even took out the
Coke machine.”

Saucery

73

Boccanegra sat in thoughtful si-
lence for a moment. Then he laughed
out loud and waved to the grouchy
waitress for more coffee.

‘Tou, too/* he said. “Well, let’s
put our heads together and see if we
can figure something out.”

By the time of the fourth refill, the
waitress was muttering audibly to
herself.

The problem wasn’t just the fickle
tastes of the public. It was the Mar-
tians. There simply was no room for
imaginary wonders in the public at-
tention when the real thing was get-
ting a few hundred miles closer to
Earth every day. And the unfair part
of it was that the Martians were so
damned dull. They didn’t have spirit-
ual counseling for the troubled bil-
lions of Earth. They didn’t warn of
impending disasters or offer hope of
salvation, they just stood there in
their stalls on the spaceship Algon-
quin, swilling their scummy soup.

“1 guess you’ve gone over all your
books to see if there’s anything about
Martians in them?’’ Moore said hope-
fully.

Boccanegra shook his head. “I
mean, yes, I looked. Nothing.’’

“Me, too,’’ Moore sighed. “I’ll tell
you the truth, Marco. I never for one
minute considered the possibility that
when we were visited by creatures
from outer space, they would be stu-
pid. Say!’’ he cried, sitting up. “What
if we say they aren’t real? I mean.

they’re like the household pets of the
real Eudorpans?’’

“The Great Galactics,’’ Boccane-
gra corrected eagerly. “Or maybe not
pets but, you know, like false clues
the superior space beings put there
to throw us off the trail?’’

“And we can say we’ve had revela-
tions about it, and — well, hell Mar-
co,’’ said Moore, suddenly facing real-
ity. “Would anyone believe us?’’

“Has that ever made any differ-
ence?’’

“No, but really, it’d be good if we
had some kind of, you know, evi-
dence.’’

“Evidence,” Boccanegra said
thoughtfully.

“See, these Martians will actually
be here in a few months, right? Next
thing you know, they’ll be landing,
and they’ll be in a zoo or something,
and people can see them for them-
selves. They kind of talk a little bit,
you know. Maybe they’d say some-
thing that could blow us right out of
the water.’’

“They really are stupid, Tony.’’

“Yes, but Marco, if they’ve got
some kind of writings that we don’t
know about, because all we’ve ever
seen is what they sent on the TV from
the spaceship—”

“But maybe they’re degenerate,”
Boccanegra cried, “so they don’t know
what the stuff really means!”

“Well,” Moore said doggedly,
“there might be a real problem there,
all the same. If we wait until they

74

Fantasy & Science Fiction

land — Then he shook his head.
“Scratch that. We can’t wait that long;
at least I can’t. I could stall the credi-
tors for maybe a month or two, but
the spaceship isn’t going to land till
nearly Christmas.’’

“And this is only June.’’ Boccane-
gra puzzled for a moment; there had
been, he was almost sure, something
good they had come quite close to.
But what was it?

“How about,’’ said Moore, “if we
found some other Martians?’’

Boccanegra frowned. “Besides the
ones they’ve found, you mean? Some-
where else on Mars?’’

“Not necessarily on Mars. But the
same sort of creatures, maybe on Ve-
nus, maybe on the Moon — we say
they live in caves, see? So nobody’s
seen them; that’s what they do on
Mars, right? There could even have
been some long ago on — what’s its
name, that moon of Jupiter that’s al-
ways having volcanic eruptions— only
the volcanoes killed them off.’’

“Um,’’ said Boccanegra. “Yeah,
maybe.’’ He was scowling in concen-
tration, because that faint ringing of
cash registers was still in his ears,
only he couldn’t quite tell where it
came from. “I don’t see where we
get any kind of evidence that way,
though,’’ he pointed out. “I’d like it if
we had something right here on Earth
about that.’’

“O.K., Antarctica! There’s a col-
ony of them on Antarctica; or at least
there used to be, but they died of

cold after the continents migrated.’’

“There are people all over Antarc-
tica, Tony. Russians and Americans
and everybody.’’

“Well, at the bottom of the sea?’’

“They’ve got those robot subma-
rines going down there all the time.’’

“Sure,’’ Moore said, improvising,
“but those are all U.S. Navy or some-
thing, aren’t they? The subs have seen
all the proof in the world, but the
government’s covering up.’’

“That’s good,’’ Boccanegra said
thoughtfully. “Let’s see if I’ve got the
picture. There were beings like these
Martians all over the Solar System
once. Of course, they’re not really
’Martians.’ It’s just that the first live
specimens that turned up were on
Mars, all right? They’ve been on Earth,
too, ever since the time the Great Ga-
lactics came — the people from Planet
Theta, too,’’ he added quickly. “And
all these years they’ve been hiding
down there, exerting an influence on
what has happened to the human
race. It hasn’t all been good: wars,
depressions—’’

“Crazy fads,’’ Moore put in.

“Right! All the things that have
gone wrong, it’s because these Mar-
tians have been willing it; they’ve de-
generated and become evil. We don’t
call them Martians, of course. We call
them something like Emissaries, or
Guardians, or — what’s a bad kind of
guardian?’’

“Dead Souls,’’ said Moore trium-
phantly.

Saucery

75

“Sure, they’re Dead Souls. Sounds
kind of Russian, but that’s not bad
either. And they’ve been in Antarcti-
ca under the ice and — Aw, no,’’ he
said, disappointed. “It won’t work.
We can’t get to Antarctica.’’

“So?’’

“So how do we get evidence that
there really are Dead Souls there?’’

“I don’t really see why you keep
harping on evidence,’’ Moore said
irritably.,

“I don’t mean evidence like find-
ing a real, live Dead Soul kind of Mar-
tian,’’ Boccanegra explained. “You
know. We need some sort of mes-
sage. Mystic drawings. Carvings. Some-
thing like the Cuzco lines, or the
rune stone. Of course,’’ he explained,
“they wouldn’t be in any Earthly lan-
guage. We work out translations. Par-
tial translations, because we don’t
give the whole thing at once; we
keep translating new sections as we
go along.’’

“We get the key from Planet The-
ta in a trance,’’ Moore said helpfully.

“Or astral projection,’’ Boccane-
gra nodded, “from the Great Galac-
tics.’’ He thought for a moment, and
then said wistfully, “But it would be
better if we had something to take
photographs of. I always put photo-
graphs in my books; they really make
a difference, Tony.’’

“Maybe we could crack open some
rocks, like Richard Shaver? And find
mystic drawings in the markings?’’

“I don’t like to repeat what any-

body else has done,’’ Boccanegra said
virtuously. “And I don’t know where
Shaver got the rocks, either. Maybe in
a cave, or—’’

He stopped in mid-sentence, the
ringing of the cash bells now loud
and clear. They stared at each other.

“A cave,’’ Moore whispered.

“Not under the ocean. Under the
ground! Tony! Are there any caves
under the retreat?’’

“Not a one,’’ Moore said regret-
fully. “I didn’t think of that when I
bought the tract. But listen, there are
millions of caves all over. All we have
to do is find one big one with a lot of
passages no one ever goes into—’’

“'Hiere are lots right along the
Mississippi River,” Boccanegra
chimed in. “There’s even the Mam-
moth Cave, or Carlsbad — why, there
are some in Pennsylvania that haven’t
even been explored much.’’

“And then maybe I can say I’ve
seen the carvings while I was in astral
projection—’’

“And then 1 can actually go there
and discover them and take pictures!’’
Boccanegra finished triumphantly. “I
wouldn’t say where they came from
at first—’’

“—until we got a chance to put
the drawings there—’’

“—and nobody would argue, be-
cause everybody knows you and I
have never worked together—’’

“—and they’d be kind of like Shav-
er’s Deros— ’’

“—only not deranged robots;

76

Fantasy & Science Fiction

they’ll look like the Martians, be- “And I’ll go right down to the li-
cause they’re the same Dead Souls, brary and start looking up caves,’’
and they mess everything up for hu- Moore said. “And we don’t want to
manity because they’re evil—’’ be seen too much together, so what

“And we’ll split the money?’’ do you say we just get together for a
Moore cried. “You do your books. I’ll minute later on tonight, say about
do the retreats. Maybe along about seven?’’

Labor Day, you and I can have a pub- “Lobby of the Grand Hyatt,’’ Boc-
lic reconciliation, submerging our old canegra agreed. He clapped his hands
differences because now we’ve dis- imperiously at the waitress, sulking
covered this ultimate reality not even by the kitchen door. She came over
we suspected before—’’ and dropped the check in front of

“—and I can come to the re- him.
treats—’’ “I’ll get the tip,’’ Moore offered,

“And, sure, you can have black pulling out a handful of silver. Boc-
robes,’’ Moore said generously. “Mar- canegra, back in character, merely
CO, it’s doable! The good old days are inclined his head in silent agreement,
coming back, for sure!’’ although inside he was marking up

the mental ledger: 19. 50 for the pas-
The two men smiled at each oth- trami sandwiches, and only five quar-
er, their minds racing. Then Moore ters for the tip; next time they would
said, “What about the ‘Today’ show? eat in a better place and he would
That’d be a great place to start, if you take-care of the tip. As he waited for
can get in?’’ the cashier to fill out the slip on the

Boccanegra pursed his lips. Thank one remaining valid credit card, Boc-
heaven he’d sweetened the reception- canegra said suddenly, “My cane!’’ He
ist; she’d let him in, probably, and hurried back to the table before the
then he could just walk in on the waitress got there and picked up two
booking woman; then it would just of the quarters. Then he rejoined An-
be a matter of how fast he could talk, thony Makepeace Moore at the door,
“At least fifty-fifty,’’ he estimated, “if I and the two prophets went out into
get back to NBC before the offices the world they were about to con-
close.’’ quer.

Saucery

77

At one of those college literary
bashes where The Celebrated Visit-
ing Author sits alone on the stage and
academics with clipboards pelt him
or her with “insightful” questions, I
was recently hit with the poser, “What
is your definition of maturity?”

I thought about that for a moment
before answering.

And in that moment, here is the
anecdote that flashed through my
head, that I did not impart to the gath-
ered sages:

Most of you know by now that my
friend Mike Model, host for more
than fifteen years of the Hour 25
radio show on KPFK-FM in Los An-
geles, died of brain cancer on Tues-
day, May 6th. Because he learned of
his terminal state in February, and
because the continuation of the pro-
gram was a matter of concern to him,
Mike came to visit and we talked
about the darkness soon to come;
and Mike asked me to host the show
for him when he was gone. Because I
loved him, and because his show has
been so important to writers and
readers of the genre for so long, I
agreed to take over Hour 25.

But the foreknowledge of Mike's
imminent leavetaking, added to the
weight of the deaths of so many close
friends these last few months, sent
me into a tailspin. My thoughts grew

Copyright • 1996 by The KtUmanjaro Corporation.

Installment 19: In Wbicb We Long
For Tbe Stillness Of Tbe Lake, Tbe
Smooth Stvell Of Tbe Sea

7t

Fantaiy & Science FktkMi

wearier and grimmer by the day. Un-
til the anguish and the pressure be-
gan to produce a sharp pain behind
my left eye.

As 1 am one of those blessed indi-
viduals who almost never get head-
aches, this sharp needlepoint of ag-
ony behind my left eye came to obsess
me. I knew very well, in my right
mind, that I did not share Mike's ill-
ness; but every time the pain returned,
I tumbled into the abyss of irrational-
ity and thought, ‘i’ve got brain cancer.
There’s a gray pudding on the grow
back there behind my eye.” It was
crazy; and when I saw Woody Allen’s
Hannah and Her Sisters in the mid-
dle of March, and Woody went
through exactly the same hypochon-
driacal situation, I laughed at myself.
But I could not shake the terrible
thought, and finally I made an ap-
pointment with John Romm, who has
been my doctor for decades, and I
went to find out if I was more irra-
tional than usual.

John examined me, put the light
up to the eye and looked in, and re-
ported back that there didn’t seem to
be anything in there pressing against
the optic nerve. “Shouldn’t I get a
brain scan?’* I said. “Well, if you’re
thinking about something like that,
there’s better state of the art than a
CAT scan. It’s called an MRI and it
costs about a grand.”

“MRI?”

“Magnetic Resonance Imaging.
About a grand. But if you can’t get

this lunacy out of your mind, spend
the money and put yourself at ease.”

“I’ll think about it.”

So I thought about it. For several
weeks. Went to see Mike in Cedars-
Sinai Medical Center, couldn’t rid
myself of the horror, and finally went
in for the MRI. The next day, John
called to report the findings on the
images. ‘Tou’re fine,” he said. “No
problems in there at all.”

1 felt the edge of the desk 1 had
been gripping for the first instant
since I’d picked up his call, and real-
ized how mad I’d been driven by
Mike’s situation. The pain behind my
eye vanished instantly.

Then I heard John chuckling.
“What’s so goddam funny?” I de-
manded, feeling more the fool than
ever.

“Well, it’s just something the tech-
nician who sent these over said,”
John replied, trying to keep a straight
tone.

“Yeah? And what was that?”

“Uh, well ... he asked me, ‘Are
you sure this guy is almost fifty-two
years old?’ And I said, yes, I was cer-
tain; that I’d known you for years and
that I knew you’d be fifty-two in May,
and he said, ‘This is remarkable for a
guy his age. The actual brain matter
looks like that of a six-year-old boy.’ ”
And John broke up again. When he
had it under control he said, “I al-
ways suspected you had the brain of a
six-year-old.”

That was what I thought in the

Harlan HKkni’s Watching

79

moment before answering the aca-
demics. Because it was the anecdote
that informed what I’ve always con-
sidered to be a pretty workable defi-
nition of maturity. And I said to the
questioner, “I take to mean, when
you say maturity, that you’re asking
what I think an adult is. And my
answer is that being grown-up means
having achieved in adult terms what
you dreamed of being as a child. In
other words, you’d be mature, and an
adult grown-up, if — say — when you
were a kid you wanted to be a cow-
boy and now you owned a cattle
ranch. Or if you wanted to fly like
Superman when you were a kid, if
you were now an airline pilot.”

And I added this quotation from
Rimbaud: ‘‘Genius is the recovery of
childhood at will.”

These thoughts, as random as most
with which I open this column every
time, tie in with observations about
childish and adult visions of what to
make as a motion picture in an era
when the studios check the growth-
rings of writers and directors before
they commit to a project.

As rare as it has been in the his-
tory of motion picture writing for
talent of a high order to emerge—
Richard Brooks, James Goldman,
Richard L. Breen, Paddy Chayefsky,
Herman Mankiewicz, Ring Lardner,
Jr. and the Epstein brothers come
immediately to mind, though the list
is a lot longer than you’d care to have
me reproduce here and, sad sad sad.

you wouldn’t recognize the names of
those who dreamed the dreams and
put the words into the mouths of Bo-
gart and Lancaster and Bergman and
McQueen — as rare as it’s been till
now, the situation today is fuckin’
bloody tragic. We operate in The Age
of the Know-Nothing Tots.

Kids raised not on literature, or
even on films, but on television re-
runs, are being hired every minute to
write and produce films that have the
social import and artistic longevity of
zweiback.

(Here are some grim statistics.
The current membership of the Writ-
ers Guild of America, West is 6181.
Of that number only 5 1 % is currently
employed. That’s 3152 men and wom-
en. But of percentage, while 61%
of WGAw members under forty years
of age are working, only 43% over
forty have a job. Don’t ask what it’s
like for directors. )

The deals being made at Cannon,
at Fox, at Paramount and Universal,
are deals for projects brought to ex-
ecutives by second-rate and deriva-
tive talents. Deals brought to men
and women whose backgrounds are
seldom in filmmaking, whose exper-
tise and store of literary precedents
is at best meager. (This is a series of
generalizations. Of course not every-
one who sells a script, or more usual-
ly a script idea, is a superannuated
surfer. There are Larry Kasdans and
Vickie Patiks and Tom Benedeks who
have as much elan as Shelagh Delany

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Fantasy & Science Fiction

or Harold Ramis or Horton Foote at
the top of their form. But the general-
ization speaks unquaveringly to the
reality of the industry practice to-
day. The young and dumb sell to the
only slightly less young and much
dumber. )

These deals being made, and the
films often made as a result of the
deals, are films that cannot be viewed
or critiqued by standards that have
always obtained for literature, mov-
ies or even television segments.

Consider: we learn from the trade
papers that filmgoing dropped an-
other 15% last year. We learn that
more and more of the audience that
used to go out to, say, a movie a
week, now stays home and watches
videocassettcs. The weekly opening
of movies convinces us that over-
whelmingly the theater-viewing au-
dience is made up of teenagers. In
the week that I write this column,
here is what dominates the screens of
Los Angeles, not much different from
the screens where you live:

Molly Ringwald in Pretty in Pink;
Judd Nelson in Blue City; Sean Penn
in i4f Close Range; Band of the Hand;
Nicolas Cage in The Boy in Blue; Ally
Sheedy in Short Circuit; Dangerously
Close; Fire with Fire; Echo Park; Free
Ride; Girls Just Want to Have Fun;
Lucas and Top Gun with Tom Cruise.

These are all films either about
teenagers, or starring teenagers
(though most of them are now in
their twenties . . . the Brat Pack be-

gins to creak and suffer morning ar-
thritis). Most of them belabor the
rite of passage, the dawn of sexuality,
the pair-bonding of prep school twits,
or the confusion of mid-life crisis oc-
curing at age eighteen.

And one realizes, with a shock,
that the traditional basics for review-
ing films is inapplicable these days.
One cannot, at peril of being hincty
and irrelevent, evaluate a film on the
merits of screenwriting, editing, di-
rection or even design. None of these
staples seem to matter to the mer-
chandisers of modern films. Apart
from splashy special effects (which is
a criterion that has begun to pall for
even the most unjudgmental Kalli-
kak), the sole criterion of a movie’s
worth — looney! lunatic! loopy! — is
if the soundtrack can be melded to
2-second snippets of the action se-
quences to form a music video for
MTV, producing, of course, a gold
album.

It doesn’t matter if the film is a
medieval fantasy ( Ladyhawke ), a con-
temporary aerobatics adventure ( Top
Gun ), a western ( Silverado ), an Ed-
die Murphy-clone cop rampage (Run-
ning Scared), or retold fairy tales
(Legend, Company of Wolves). All
that counts is that a sound is pro-
duced that can function in the sec-
ondary markets for appeal only to
those who cannot listen to music in
anything under 200 decibels. That
the music doesn’t fit, that the music
jars, that the music distracts and

Harlan Ellison’s Watching

81

blunts the mood of scene after scene,
seems not to enter into considera-
tion by those responsible for the film’s
artistic gestalt.

It is adolescent adults playing 3-
card monte with the captive kiddie
audience, or actual tots saying fiick
you to the rest of the world, both
younger and older.

This cynical pandering to the
sophomoric, unformed and utterly
undiscriminating hungers of a juve-
nile audience disenfranchises the rest
of us, both younger and older than
the demographic wedge that buys
rock music ... or worse, that even
smaller wedge that doesn’t buy but
merely derives its calorie-poor musi-
cal diet from watching television\

Take SHORT CIRCUIT (Tri-Star)
and LEGEND (Universal) as speci-
mens under the microscope.

Short Circuit is nothing more than
a sappy replay of E. T. with a cuddly,
anthropomorphized runaway robot
replacing a cuddly etcetera etcetera
alien. It is last year’s DA.R.Y.L Mzt-
tinized and reworn. (Only difference
is that Barrett Oliver as the robot in
DA.R.Y.L had his gears and cogs and
chips camouflaged, while No. 5 in
Short Circuit has metal in view. ) Both
films paint authority as not merely
inept and evil-with-a-Three-Stooges
silliness, but as implacably stupid and
brutish.

Granted, Short Circuit posits the
philosophical position that violence
and killing are not nice things to do,

which is a salutary message in this era
of Cobra and Ramho\ nonetheless it
is a film that panders to the youth
audience by giving them two of the
three staples of all these teen-slanted
films.

What are the three?

1) Bare tits. (Absent from this
movie, presumably because Ally
Sheedy, the omnipresent Ally Sheedy,
is such a box office draw that she
doesn’t have to bare her bosom.)

2 ) Disdain for authority.

3 ) Casual destruction of personal
and public property.

No. 5 is just a kid, after all. It may
be a kid with molybdenum paws, that
runs on trunnions instead of sneak-
ers, but it’s just a kid. And, like James
Dean, it is having a hard time learning
who is it. It suffers existential angst
in trying to reconcile the creative
abilities of humans with the species’s
need to slaughter. It is the same, tired
rebel without a cause yarn. It invests
the young with a nobility that is un-
possessed, presumably, by anyone
over the age of twenty-one.

Short Circuit did big ticket busi-
ness, but no amount of giving-the-
benefit for its anti-killing aspect can
disguise the fact that this plate of
spinach is a manipulative, sappy truck-
ling to teen hungers and fantasies.
And having Steve Guttenberg stand-
ing around like something carved
from Silly Putty don’t help beat the
bulldog, if you catch my drift.

Yet Short Circuit soared. I suggest

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Fantasy & Science Fiction

this phenomenal turn of events can
be linked to the promotion of the
film via music videos and its totemi-
zation of adolescent rebellion fanta-
sies. It sure as hell couldn’t have been
on the basis of freshness of material
or superlative acting.

It is a kiddie film, made by adults
pretending to have the souls of the
pure and innocent. Porky, duded up
like Peter Pan.

A sidebar thought, probably deep-
er that we have space here to ex-
plore: is film rendering our impres-
sion of the mutable world meaning-
less?

For more than sixty years we have
received a good proportion of our
understanding of the world around
us from movies. Film was seldom at
the cutting edge of the culture in
portraying trends, but as soon as a
trend became clear, movies were in
there, commenting on it, well or bad-
ly. On the Waterfront may have come
to the subject of labor corruption
late in the game, but when it came, it
made its position known. America
took notice. Saturday Night Fever
may look cornball today, only nine
years later, with its stacked-heel
disco boots and its Nik-Nik shirts, but
it drove America into a spin when the
Bee Gees and Travolta made their
statement about the social set that
lived and foamed in disco palaces.
(And it was only about five years in-
to the trend before it got the wind
up; pretty good for an essentially con-

servative industry.)

But is this ability to mirror the
world still operating in the main-
stream of motion pictures?

I think not. The numbers are
skewed, the facts distorted, the pic-
ture out of focus. One of those Polar-
oid shots in which everything comes
out roast beef red. Such films as Short
Circuit — the sf version of a typical
teen rebellion flick — send us a view
of the world that resembles “The
Lord of the Flies’* more than it does
reality. Kids run everything in these
movies. Either kids grown a little
older, like Guttenberg and Sheedy
and Cage and Estavez and Moore, or
kids in their native habitat, like Nel-
son and Macchio.

It was bad enough when movies
beat us about the blades to accept
obscurantism and illogic like Amity-
ville as the secret formula to under-
stand Life, but the current flood of
discarded immaturity that pretends
to be How It Is looks real, no matter
how twisted and bent. And this, 1
submit, is hardly the meal we need to
enrich us.

They are films that reject matur-
ity, even in the loose terms I suggest-
ed at the outset of this essay.

Films made that play to childish
(not childlike) ideas of what the Eter-
nal Verities might be.

Films that sell smash-cut music
videos to an audience with only dawn-
ing responsibility toward itself and
its Times, an audience with too much

Harlan Ellison’s Watching

83

money burning a hole in its pocket,
and the blood-level belief that its
youth is the noblest state to which a
person can aspire.

Films that sell, with obvious and
hidden tropes, in every frame, the bill
of goods that anyone not capable of
appearing on Soul Train is beyond
consideration, so what the hell does
it matter if we bust up their property
and give ’em the finger?

When this pretense of innocence,
as in Short Circuit, is swallowed whole
by presumed adults, we have a situa-
tion where filmmakers who should
know better gull themselves into sel-
ling that hype of Youth Eternal with
no understanding of how they cor-
rupt not only their talent, but the
very audience they pretend to serve.

Such is the case with Legend,
which I’ll deal with at full length next
time. Suffice to say, for now, that this
epic brought forth by Ridley Scott
and a battalion of equally talented
creators, panders as shamefully as
Top Gun or Porky’s to teenage fanta-
sies of Good and Evil, Rebellion and
Authority, Youth and Age. And does it
with the breakneck pace of an MTV
potboiler, so loud and so demented

in its headlong flight, that we emerge
from the screening room gasping for
breath, praying for a moment of sur-
cease.

There is no room to breathe in
Legend, even as there is no room to
breathe in Beverly Hills Cop or Top
Gun. We are not permitted a mo-
ment’s respite to think what all this
kiddie fascination with faeries and
unicorns and demons and goblins is
all in aid of.

Do not mistake my meaning. Le-
gend is an astonishing film in many
ways. The eyes will behold things
they have never seen, have only con-
jured in dreams. And that is wonder-
ful, because it’s what movies are sup-
posed to do for us.

But Legend becomes, in its final
American version, a telling example
of studio interference, of Art twisted
to serve the ends of Commerce Un-
checked, of a creative intellect oper-
ating without maturity. I’ll talk about
it next time.

Because Legend is something real-
ly strange: a fifty-two year old man
with the brain of a six-year-old. Some-
thing really strange like that.

84

Fantasy & Science Fiction

Lucius Shepard C*A Spanish Lesson** December 1985; **The Jag-
uar Hunger** May 1985) returns with another of his distinctive
tales; he describes this one as **my idea of a story told by a
future storyteller about his distant past, which is our distant
future . . .

The Arcevoalo

BY

LUCIUS SHEPARD

O.

hundred years after the September
War, whose effects had transformed
the Amazon into a region of supernal
mystery, a young man with olive skin
and delicate features and short black
hair awoke to find himself lying amid
a bed of ferns not far from the ruined
city of Manaus. It seemed to him that
some great darkness had just been
lifted away, but he could recall no-
thing more concrete of his past,
neither his name nor those of his
parents or place of birth. Indeed, he
was so lacking in human referents
that he remained untroubled by this
state of affairs and gazed calmly
around at the high green canopy and
the dust-hung shafts of sun and the
tapestry of golden radiance and sha-
dow overlying the jungle floor. Every-
where he turned he saw marvelous
creatures: butterflies with translucent

wings; birds with hinged, needle-thin
beaks; snakes with foceted eyes that
glowed more brightly than live coals.
Yet the object that commanded his
attention was a common orchid, its
bloom a dusky lavender, that de-
pended from the lowermost branch
of a guanacaste tree. The sight mes-
merized him, and intuitions about
the orchid flowed into his thoughts:
how soft its petals were, how subtle
its fragrance, and, lastly, that it was
not what it appeared to be. At that
moment, as if realizing that he had
penetrated its disguise, the bloom
flew apart, revealing itself to have
been composed of glittering insects,
all of which now whirled off toward
the canopy, shifting in color like par-
ticles of an exploded rainbow; and
the young man understood — a fur-
ther intuition — that he, too, was not
what he appeared.

AS

The Arcevoalo

Puzzled, and somewhat afraid, he
glanced down at the ferns and saw
scattered among them pieces of a fi-
brous black husk. Upon examining
them, he discovered that the insides
of the pieces were figured by smooth
indentations that conformed exactly
to the shapes of his face and limbs.
There could be no doubt that prior
to his awakening, he had been en-
closed within the husk like a seed in
its casing. His anxiety increased when—
on setting down one of the pieces —
his fingers brushed the clay beneath
the ferns and he saw before his mind’s
eye the pitching deck of a vast wood-
en ship, with wild seas bursting over
the railings. Men wearing steel hel-
mets and carrying pikes were huddled
in the bow, and standing in the door
that led to the gun decks (how had
he known that?) was a gray-haired
man who beckoned to him. To him?
No, to someone he had partly been.
JoSLo Merin Nascimento. That name
— like his vision of the ship — sur-
faced in his thoughts following con-
tact with the clay. And with the name
came a thousand fragments of memo-
ry, sufficient to make the young man
realize that Nascimento, a Portuguese
soldier of centuries past, lay buried
beneath the spot where he was sit-
ting, and that he was in essence the
reincarnation of the old soldier: for
just as the toxins and radiations of
the September War had transformed
the jungle, so the changed jungle had
worked a process of alchemy on those

ancient bones and produced a new
creature, human to a degree, yet —to
a greater degree — quite inhuman.
Understanding this eased the young
man’s anxiety, because he now knew
that he was safe in the dominion of
the jungle, whose creature he truly
was. But he understood, too, that his
manlike form embodied a cunning
purpose, and in hopes of discerning
that purpose, he set out to explore
the jungle, walking along a trail that
led ( though he was not aware of it )
to the ruins of Manaus.

Nine days he walked, and during
those days he learned much about
the jungle’s character and — conse-
quently — about his own. From a
creature with a dozen bodies, each
identical, yet only one of which con-
tained its vital spark, he learned an
ultimate caution; from the malgaton,
a fierce jaguarlike beast whose strange
eyes could make a man dream of
pleasure while he died, he learned
the need for circumspection in the
cause of violence; from the deadly ji-
caparee vine with its exquisite flow-
ers, he learned the importance of set-
ting a lure and gained an appreciation
of the feral principles underlying all
beauty.

From each of these creatures and
more, he learned that no living thing
is without its parasites and symbi-
otes, and that in the moment they are
born their death is also born. But not
until he came in sight of the ruined
city, when he saw its crumbling, vine-

86

Fantasy & Science Fiction

draped towers tilting above the can-
opy like grotesque vegetable chess-
men whose board was in process of
being overthrown, not until then did
he at last fathom his purpose: that he
was to be the jungle's weapon against
mankind, its mortal enemy who time
and again had sought to destroy it.

The young man could not con-
ceive how — fangless and clawless
—he would prove a threat to an enemy
with weapons that had poisoned a
world. Perplexed, hoping some fur-
ther illumination would strike him,
he took to wandering the city streets,
over cracked flagstones between
which he could see the tunnels of
guerilla ants, past ornate wrought-
iron streetlamps in whose fractured
globes white phosphorescent spiders
the size of skull crabs had spun their
webs (by night their soft glow con-
veyed a semblance of the city's fabu-
lous heyday into this, its rotting de-
cline), and through the cavernous
mansions of the wealthy dead. Every-
where he wandered he encountered
danger, for Manaus had been heavily
dusted during the September War
and thus was home to the most per-
verse of the jungle's mutations: flying
lizards that spit streams of venom; al-
bino peacocks whose shrill cries
could make a man bleed from the
ears; the sortilene, a mysterious crea-
ture never glimpsed by human eyes,
known only by the horrid malignan-
cies that sprouted from the flesh of
its victims; herds of peccaries, super-

ficially unchanged but possessing vo-
cal chords that could duplicate the
cries of despairing women. At night
an enormous shadow obscured the
stars, testifying to an even more dire
presence. Yet none of these creatures
troubled the young man — they
seemed to know him for an ally. And,
indeed, often as he explored the
gloomy interiors of the ruined houses,
he would see hundreds of eyes gazing
at him, slit pupils and round, showing
all colors like a spectrum of stars
ranging the dusky green shade, and
then he would have the idea that they
were watching over him.

At length he entered the lobby of
a hotel that — judging by the sump-
tuous rags of its drapes, the silver-
cloth stripe visible in the moss-furred
wallpaper, the immensity of the re-
ception desk — must once have been
a palace among hotels. Thousands of
slitherings stilled when he entered.
The dark green shadows seemed the
visual expression of a cloying musti-
ness, one redolent of a thousand in-
significant deaths. His footsteps shak-
ing loose falls of plaster dust, he
walked along the main hallway, past
elevator shafts choked with vines and
epithytes, and came eventually to a
foyer whose roof was holed in such a
fashion that sharply defined sunbeams
hung down from it, dappling the scum-
my surface of an ornamental pond
with coins of golden light.
There, sitting naked and cross-legged
on a large lily pad — the sort that

The Arcevoalo

87

once hampered navigation on the
Rio Negro due to the toughness of its
fiber — was an old Indian man, so
wizened that he appeared to be a
homunculus. His eyes were closed,
his white hair filthy and matted, and
his coppery skin bore a greenish tinge
(whether this was natural coloration
or a product of the shadows, the
young man could not determine).
The young man expected intuitions
about the Indian to flow into his
thoughts; but when this did not oc-
cur, he realized that though the Indi-
ans, too, had been changed by the
September War, though they were
partially the jungle’s creatures, they
were still men, and the jungle had no
knowledge of men other than that it
derived from the bones of the dead.
How then, he wondered, could he
defeat an enemy about whom he was
ignorant? He stretched out a hand to
the Indian, thinking a touch might
transmit some bit of information. But
the Indian’s eyes blinked open, and
with a furious splashing he paddled
the lily pad beyond the young man’s
reach. “The arcevoalo must be cau-
tious with his touch,” he said in a
creaky voice that seemed to stir the
atoms of the dust within the sun-
beams. Haven’t you learned that?”

Though the young man — the
arcevoalo — had not heard his name
before, he recognized it immediately.
With its Latinate echoes of wings and
arcs, it spoke to him of the life he
would lead, how he would soar brief-

ly through the world of men and then
return to give his knowledge of them
to the jungle. Knowing his name
opened him to his full strength — he
felt it flooding him like a golden heat
— and served to align his character
more precisely with that of the jun-
gle. He stared down at the Indian,
who now struck him as being wholly
alien, and asked how be had known
the name.

‘‘This truth I have eaten has told it
to me,” said the Indian, holding up a
pouch containing a quantity of white
powder. Grains of it adhered to his
fingers. ‘‘I was called here to speak
the truth to someone . . . doubtless to
you. But now 1 must leave.” He slipped
off the lily pad and waded toward the
edge of the pond.

Moving so quickly that he caused
the merest flutter of shadow upon
the surface of the water, the arcevoa-
lo leaped to the far side of the pond,
blocking the Indian’s path. ‘‘What is
this ‘truth?’” he asked. ‘‘And who
called you here?”

‘‘The powder derives from the
asuero flower,” said the Indian. ‘‘A
plant fertilized with the blood of
honest men. As to who called me, if I
had known that I might not have
come.” He made as if to haul himself
from the pond, but the arcevoalo
stayed him.

‘‘How must I go about conquering
my enemy?” he asked.

‘‘To do battle one must first un-
derstand the foe.”

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Fantasy & Science Fiction

“Then I will keep you with me
and learn your ways,” countered the
arcevoalo.

The Indian hissed impatiently. “I
am as different from those you must
understand as you are from me. You
must go to the city of Sangue do
Lume. It is a new city, inhabited by
Brazilians who fled the September
War. Until recently they dwelled in
metal worlds that circle the darkness
behind the sky. Now they have re-
turned to claim their ancient hold-
ings, to reap the fruits of the jungle
and to kill its animals for profit. It is
they with whom you will contend.”

“How will I contend? I have no
weapons.”

“You have speed and strength,”
said the Indian. “But your greatest
weapon is a mere touch.”

He instructed the arcevoalo to
press the pads of his fingers hard, and
when he did droplets of clear fluid
welled from beneath the nails.

“A single drop will enslave any
man’s heart for a time,” said the Indi-
an. “But you must use this power
sparingly, for your body can produce
the fluid only in a limited quantity.”

He flicked his eyes nervously from
side to side, obviously afraid, eager to
be gone. The arcevoalo continued to
ask questions, but the effects of the
“truth” drug were wearing off, and
the Indian began to whine and to lie,
saying that his cousin, whom he had
not seen since the Year of Fabulous
Sorrows, was coming to visit and he

would be remiss if he were not home
to greet him. With a wave of his hand,
the arcevoalo dismissed him, and the
Indian went scuttling away toward
the lobby.

For a long time the arcevoalo stood
beside the pond, thinking about what
the Indian had said, watching the
sunlight fade; in its stead a gray-green
dusk filtered down from the holes in
the roof. Soon he felt himself dim-
ming, his thoughts growing slow, his
blood sluggish, his muscles draining
of strength: it was as if the dusk were
also taking place inside his soul and
body, and a gray-green fluid seeping
into him and making him terribly
weak and vague, incapable of move-
ment. He saw that from every crack
and cranny, jeweled eyes and scaly
snouts and tendriled mouths were
peering and thrusting and gaping. And
in this manifold scrutiny, he sensed
the infinitude of lives for whom he
was to be the standard-bearer: those
creatures in the ruined foyer were
but the innermost ring of an audience
focused upon him from every corner
of the jungle. He apprehended them
singly and as one, and from the com-
bined intelligence of their regard he
understood that dusk for him was an
hour during which he must be soli-
tary, both to hide from men the weak-
ness brought on by the transition
from light to dark, and to commune
with the source of his imperatives.
Dusk thickened to night, shafts of
silvery moonlight shone down to re-

The Arcevoalo

89

place those of the sun, which now
burned over Africa, and with the dark-
ness a new moon of power rose in-
side the arcevoalo, a silver strength
equal yet distinct from the golden
strength he possessed by day, geared
more to elusiveness than to acts of
domination. Freed of his intangible
bonds, he walked from the hotel and
set forth to find Sangue do Lume.

I^^uring the twenty-seven days it
took the arcevoalo to reach Sangue
do Lume — which means “Blood of
Light’’ in Portuguese, which is the
language of sanguinary pleasures and
heartbreak — he tested himself
against the jungle. He outran the mal-
gatdn, outclimbed the tarzanal, and
successfully spied upon the myste-
rious sortilene. He tested himself joy-
fully, and perhaps he never came to
be happier than he was in those days,
living in a harmony of green light and
birds by day, and by night gazing into
the ruby eyes of a malgatdn, into
those curious pupils that flickered
and changed shape and brought the
comfort of dreams. One evening he
scaled a peak, hoping to lure down
the huge shadow that each night ob-
scured the stars, and when it flew
near he saw that it was almost literal-
ly a shadow, being millimeters thick
and having neither eyes nor mouth
nor any feature that he could discern.
There was something familiar about
it, and he sensed that it was interested

in him, that it — like him — was the
sole member of its species. But oth-
erwise it remained a puzzle: a rip-
pling field of opaque darkness as in-
comprehensible as a flat black
thought.

Sangue do Lume lay in a hilly val-
ley between three mountains and was
modeled after the old colonial towns,
with cobbled streets and white stuc-
co houses that had ironwork balco-
nies and tiled roofs and gardens in
their courtyards. Surrounding it —
also after the style of the old colonial
towns — was a slum where lived the
laborers who had built the city. And
surrounding the slum was a high wall
of gray metal from which energy wea-
pons were aimed at the jungle (no
such weapons, however, were per-
mitted within the wall). Despite the
aesthetic incompatibility of its de-
fenses, the city was beautiful, beauti-
ful even to the eyes of the arcevoalo
as he studied it from afar. He could
not understand why it seemed so, be-
ing the home of his enemy; but he
was later to learn that the walls of the
houses contained machines that re-
fined the images of the real, causing
the visual aspect of every object to
tend toward the ideal. Thus it was
that the precise indigo shadows were
in actuality blurred and dead-black;
thus it was that women who went
beyond the walls veiled themselves
to prevent their husbands from tak-
ing note of their coarsened appear-
ance; thus it was that the flies and

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Fantasy & Science Fiction

rats and other pests of Sangue do
Lume possessed a certain eye-catching
appeal.

Each morning dozens of ships
shaped like flat arrowpoints would
lift from the city and fly off across the
jungle; each afternoon they would re-
turn, their holds filled with dead
plants and bloody carcasses, which
would be unloaded into slots in the
metal wall, presumably for testing.
Seeing this, the arcevoalo grew en-
raged. Still, he bided his time and
studied the city’s ways, and it was not
until a week after his arrival that he
finally went down to the gate. The
gatekeepers were amazed to see a
naked man walk out of the jungle and
were at first suspicious; but he told
them a convincing tale of childhood
abandonment (a childhood of which,
he said, he could recall only his name
— Joao Merin Nascimento), of end-
less wandering and narrow escapes,
and soon the gatekeepers, their eyes
moist with pity, admitted him and
brought him before the governor,
Caudez do Tuscanduva: a burly,
middle-aged man with fierce black
eyes and a piratical black beard and
skin the color of sandalwood. The
audience was brief, for the governor
was a busy and a practical man, and
when he discovered the arcevoalo’s
knowledge of the jungle, he assigned
him to work on the flying ships and
gave orders that every measure should
be taken to ensure his comfort.

Such was the arcevoalo’s novelty

that all the best families clamored to
provide him with food and shelter,
and thus it was deemed strange that
Caudez do Tuscanduva chose to quar-
ter him in the Valverde house. The
Valverdes were involved in a long-
standing blood feud with the gover-
nor, one initiated years before upon
the worlds behind the sky. The gov-
ernor had been constrained by his
vows of office from settling the mat-
ter violently, and it was assumed that
this conferring of an honored guest
must be his way of making peace. But
the Valverdes themselves were not
wholly persuaded by the idea, and
therefore — with the exception of
Orlando, the eldest son — they main-
tained an aloof stance toward the
arcevoalo. Orlando piloted one of the
ships that plundered the jungle, and
it was to his ship that the arcevoalo
had been assigned. He realized that
by assisting in this work he would
better understand his enemy, and so
he did the work well, using his know-
ledge to track down the malgatdn
and the sortilene and creatures even
more elusive. Yet it dismayed him,
nonetheless. And what most dismayed
him was the fact that as the weeks
went by, he began to derive a human
satisfaction from a job well done and
to cherish his growing friendship with
Orlando, who, by virtue of his delicate
features and olive skin, might have
been the arcevoalo’s close relation.

Orlando was typical of the citi-
zenry in his attitude of divine right

The Arcevoalo

91

concerning the land^ in his arrogance
toward the poor (“They are eternal,”
he once said. “You’ll sooner find a
cure for death than for poverty”),
and in his single-minded pursuit of
pleasure; yet there was about him a
courage and soulhilness that gained
the arcevoalo’s resf)ect. On most nights
he and Orlando would dress in black
trousers and blousy silk shirts, and
would join similarly dressed young
men by the fountain in the main
square. There they would practice at
dueling with the knife and the cintral
( a jungle weed with sharp-edged ten-
drils and a rudimentary nervous sys-
tem that could be employed as a liv-
ing cat-o’-nine-tails), while the young
women would promenade around
them and cast shy glances at their fa-
vorites. The arcevoalo pretended clum-
siness with the weapons, not wanting
to display his speed and strength, and
he was therefore often the subject of
ridicule. This was just as well, for oc-
casionally these play-duels would es-
calate, and then — since even death
was beautiful in Sangue do Lume—
blood would eel across the cobble-
stones, assuming lovely serpentine
forms, and the palms ringing the square
would rustle their fronds, and sad
music would issue from the fountain,
mingling with the splash of the waters.

Many of these duels stemmed from
disputes over the affections of the
governor’s daughter, Sylvana, the sole
child of his dead wife, his pride and
joy. The bond between father and

daughter was of such intimacy, it was
said that should one’s heart stop, the
other would not long survive. Sylvana
was pale, slim, blonde, and angelic of
countenance, but was afflicted by a
brittleness of expression that bespoke
coldness and insensitivity. Observing
this, the arcevoalo was led to ask Or-
lando why the young men would risk
themselves for so heartless a prize.
Orlando laughed and said, “How can
you understand when you have no
experience of women?” And he invit-
ed the arcevoalo to gain this expe-
rience by coming with him to the Fa-
velin, which was the name of the
slum surrounding the city.

The next night, Orlando and the
arcevoalo entered the cluttered, smelly
streets of the Favefin. The hovels there
were made of rotting boards, pitched
like wreckage at every angle, and were
populated by a malnourished, shrunk-
en folk who looked to be of a differ-
ent species from Orlando. Twists of
oily smoke fumed from the chimneys;
feathered lizards slept in the dirt next
to grimy children; hags in black shawls
sacrificed pigs beneath glass bells full
of luminescent fungus and scrawled
bloody words in the dust to cure the
sick. How ugly all this might have
been beyond the range of the city’s
machines, the arcevoalo could not
conceive. They came to a street
whereon the doors were hung with
red curtains, and Orlando ushered
him through one of these and into a
room furnished with a pallet and a

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Fantasy & Science Fiction

chair. Mounted on the wall was the
holograph of a bearded man who—
though the cross to which he was
nailed had burst into emerald flames
—had maintained a beatific expres-
sion. The flames shed a ghastly light
over a skinny girl lying on a pallet. She
was hollow-cheeked, with large,
empty-looking eyes and jaundiced skin
and ragged dark hair. Orlando whis-
pered to her, gave her a coin, and—
grinning as he prepared to leave—
said, “Her name is Ana.”

Without altering her glum ex-
pression, Ana stood and removed her
shift. Her breasts had the convexity
of upturned saucers, her ribs showed,
and her genitals were almost hairless.
Nevertheless, the arcevoalo became
aroused, and when he sank down on-
to the pallet and entered her, he felt a
rush of dominance and joy that roared
through him like a whirlwind. He
clutched at Ana’s hips with all his
strength, building toward completion.
And staring into her hopeless eyes,
he sensed the profound alienness of
women, their mystical endurance, the
eerie valences of their moods, and
how even their common thoughts
turn hidden comers into bizarre men-
tal worlds. Knowing his dominance
over this peculiar segment of human-
ity acted to heighten his desire, and
with a hoarse cry he fell spent beside
Ana and into a deep sleep.

He awoke to find her gazing at him
with a look of such rapt contempla-
tion that when she turned her eyes

away, the image of his face remained re-
flected in her pupils. Timorously, shy-
ly, she asked if he planned to return to
the Favefin, to her. He recalled then
the force with which he had clutched
her, and he inspected the tips of his
hngers. Droplets glistened beneath
the nails, and there were damp bruises
on Ana’s hips. He realized that his
touch, his secret chemistry, had ma-
nifested as love, an emotion whose
power he apprehended but whose na-
ture he did not understand.

“Will you return?” she asked again.

“Yes,” he said, feeling pity for her.
“Tomorrow.”

And he did return, many times, for
in his loveless domination of that
wretched girl he had taken a step
closer to adopting the ways of man.
He had come to see that there was
little difference between the city and
the jungle, that “civilization” was
merely a name given to comfort, and
that the process of life in Sangue do
Lume obeyed the same uncivilized
laws as did the excesses of the sorti-
lene. What point was there in war-
ring against man? And, in any case,
how could he win such a war? His
touch was a useless power against
an enemy who could summon count-
less allies from its worlds behind the
sky.

Over the ensuing weeks the arce-
voalo grew ever more despondent,
and in the throes of despondency the
human elements of his soul grew
more and more predominant. At dusk

The Arcevoalo

93

his reverie was troubled by images of
lust and conquest stirred from the
memories of Jo21o Merin Nascimento.
And his work aboard Orlando’s ship
became so proficient that Caudez do
Tuscanduva held a fete in his honor, a
night of delirium and pleasure during
which a constellation of his profile
appeared in the sky, and the swaying
of the palms was choreographed by
artificial winds, and the machines
within the walls were turned high,
beautifying everyone to such an ex-
tent that everyone’s heart was broken
. . . broken, and then healed by the
consumption of tiny, soft-boned ani-
mals that induced a narcissistic ec-
stacy when eaten alive. Despite his
revulsion for this practice, the arce-
voalo indulged in it, and, his teeth
stained with blood, he spent the re-
mainder of the night wandering the
incomparably beautiful streets and
gazing longingly at himself in mirrors.

Thereafter Caudez do Tuscanduva
took Orlando and the arcevoalo under
his wing, telling them they were to
be his proteges, that he had great
plans for them. Further, he urged
them to pay court to Sylvana, saying
that, yes, she was an icy sort, but the
right man would be able to thaw her.
In this Orlando needed no urging. He
plied her with gifts and composed
lyrics to her charms. But Sylvana was
disdainful of his efforts, and though
for the most part she was equally dis-
dainful of the arcevoalo, now and
then she would favor him with a chil-

ly smile, which — while scarcely en-
couraging — made Orlando quite
jealous.

“You’d do better to set your sights
elsewhere,’’ the arcevoalo once told
Orlando. “Even if you win her, you’ll re-
gret it. She’s the kind of woman who
uses marriage like a vise, and before
you know it she’ll have you squealing
like a stuck pig.’’ He had no idea wheth-
er or not this was true — it was some-
thing he had overheard another disap-
pointed suitor say — but it accorded
with his own impressions of her. He be-
lieved that Orlando was leaving himself
open to the possibility of grievous
hurt, and he told him as much. No
matter how forcefully he argued,
though, Orlando refused to listen.

“I know you’re only trying to pro-
tect me, friend,” he said. “And per-
haps you’re right. But this is an affair
of the heart, and the heart is ruled by
its own counsel.”

And so the arcevoalo could do no-
thing more than to step aside and let
Orlando have a clear field with Syl-
vana.

On one occasion Caudez invited
them to dine at the governor’s man-
sion. They sat at a long mahogany ta-
ble graced by golden candelabra
through whose branches the arcevoa-
lo watched Sylvana daintily picking at
her food, ignoring the heated glances
that Orlando sent her way. After the
meal, Caudez led them into his study,
its windows open onto the orchid-
spangled courtyard where Sylvana

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Fantasy & Science Fiction

could be seen strolling — as elegant
as an orchid herself — and held forth
on his scheme to milk the resources
of the Amazon: how he would reopen
the gold mines at Serra Pelada, rein-
stitute the extensive-farming pro-
cedures that once had brought an
unparalleled harvest, and thus feed
and finance hundreds of new orbital
colonies. Orlando’s attention was
fixed upon Sylvana, but the arcevoalo
listened closely. Caudez, with his pi-
ratical air and his dream of transform-
ing the Amazon into a tame backyard,
struck him as being a force equal to
the jungle. Pacing up and down, de-
claiming about the glorious future,
Caudez seemed to walk with the pride
of a continent. Late in the evening he
turned his fierce black stare upon the
arcevoalo and questioned him about
his past. The questions were com-
plex, fraught with opportunities for
the arcevoalo to compromise the se-
cret of his birth; he had to summon
ail his wits to avoid these pitfalls, and
he wondered if Caudez were suspi-
cious of him. But then Caudez laughed
and clapped him on the shoulder,
saying what a marvel he was, and that
allayed his fears.

w

W W hereas in the jungle, time
passed in a dark green flow, a single
fluid moment infinitely prolonged,
within the walls of Sangue do Lume it
passed in sharply delineated segments
so that occasionally one would be-

come alerted to the fact that a certain
period had elapsed — this due to the
minuscule interruptions in the flow
of time caused by the instruments
men have for measuring it. And thus
it was that one morning the arcevoa-
lo awoke to the realization that he
had lived in the city for a year. A year!
And what progress had he made? His
life, which had once had the form of
purpose, of a quest, had resolved into
a passive shape defined by his associ-
ations: his friendship with Orlando
(whose wooing of Sylvana had
reached fever pitch), his sexual en-
counters with Ana, his apprentice-
ship to Caudez. Each night he was
reminded of his deeper associations
with the jungle by the huge shadow
that obscured the stars, yet he felt
trapped between the two worlds, at
home in neither, incapable of effect-
ing any change. He might have con-
tinued at this impasse had not Ana
announced to him one evening that
she was with child. It would. be, ac-
cording to the old woman who had
listened to her belly, a son. Standing
in the garish light of her burning
Christ, displaying her new roundness,
flushed with a love no longer de-
pendent on his touch, she presented
him with a choice he could not avoid
making. If he did nothing, his son
would be bom into the world of men;
he had to be certain this was right.

But how could he decide such a
complex issue, one that had baffled
him for an entire year?

The Arcevoalo

95

At the point of desperation, he
remembered the old Indian man and
his “truth,” and that same night, after
the machines in the walls had been
switched off, leaving the flaking white-
wash of the buildings exposed, he
sneaked into the warehouse where
the plant samples were kept and pil-
fered a quantity of asuero flowers. He
returned to the Valverde house,
ground the petals into a fine powder,
and ate the entire amount. Soon pearls
of sweat beaded on his forehead, his
limbs trembled, and the moonlight
flooding his room appeared to grow
brighter than day.

Truth came to him in the clarity
of his vision. Between the floorboards
he saw microscopic insects and
plants, and darting through the air
were even tinier incidences of life.
From these sights he understood anew
that the city and the jungle were in-
terpenetrating. Just as the ruins of
Manaus lay beneath the foliage, so
did the jungle's skeins infiltrate the
living city. One was not good, the
other evil. They were two halves of a
whole, and the war between them
was not truly a war but an everlasting
pattern, a game in which he was a
powerful pawn moved from the gro-
tesque chessboard of Manaus to the
neat squares of Sangue do Lume, a
move that had set in motion a pawn
of perhaps even greater power: his
son. He realized now that no matter
with which side he cast his lot, his
son would make the opposite choice,

for it was an immutable truth that fa-
thers and sons go contrary to the
other’s will. Thus he had to make his
own choice according to the dictates
of his soul. A soul in confusion. And
to dissolve that confusion, to know
his options fully, he had to complete
his knowledge of man byiinderstand-
ing the nature of love. He thought
first of going to Ana, of infecting him-
self with the chemicals of his touch
and falling under her spell; but then
he recognized that the kind of love
he sought to understand — the all-
consuming love that motivates and
destroys — had to embody the quali-
ty of the unattainable. With this in
mind, still trembling from the fevers
of the asuero powder, he went out
again into the night and headed to-
ward the governor’s mansion, toward
the unattainable Sylvana.

Since the concept of security in
Sangue do Lume was chiefly geared
to keeping the jungle out, the sys-
tems protecting the mansion were
minimal, easily penetrated by a crea-
ture of the arcevoalo’s stealth. He
crept up the stairs, along the hall,
cracked Sylvana’s door, and eased in-
side. As was the custom with high-
born women of the city, she was
sleeping nude beneath a skylight
through which the rays of the moon
shone down in a silvery fan. A dia-
mond pulsed coldly in the hollow of
her throat, a tourmaline winked be-
tween her breasts, and in the tuft of
her secret hair — trimmed to the

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shape of an orchid — an emerald
shimmered wetly. These gems were
bound in place by silken threads and
were no ordinary stones but crystal-
line machines that focused the moon-
light downward to produce a salub-
rious effect upon the organs, and also
served as telltales of those organs’
health. The unclouded states of the
emerald, the tourmaline, and the di-
amond testified that Sylvana was vir-
ginal and of sound heart and respira-
tion. But she was so lovely that the
arcevoalo would not have cared if the
stones had been black, signaling wan-
tonness and infection. Rivulets of
blonde hair streamed over her porce-
lain shoulders, and the soft brush of
sleep had smoothed away her brittle-
ness of expression, giving her the
look of an angel under an enchant-
ment.

Fixing his gaze upon her, the arce-
voalo gripped his left forearm with
the fingers of his right hand and
pressed down hard. He maintained
the grip for some time, uncertain
how much of the chemical would be
needed to affect him — indeed, he
was uncertain whether or not he
could be affected. But soon he felt a
languorous sensation that made his
eyelids droop and stilled the trem-
bling caused by the asuero powder.
When he opened his eyes, the sight of
the naked Sylvana pierced him: it was
as if an essential color had all along
been missing from his portrait of her.
Staring at her through the doubled

lens of truth and love, he knew her
coldness, her cunning and duplicity;
yet he perceived these flaws in the
way he might have perceived the
fracture planes inside a crystal, how
they channeled the light to create a
lovely illusion of depth and complex-
ity. Faint with desire, he walked over
to the bed. A branching of bluish
veins spread from the tops of her
breasts, twined together and vanished
beneath the diamond in the hollow
of her throat, as if deriving suste-
nance from the stone; a tiny mole lay
like a drop of obsidian by the corner
of her lips. Carefully, knowing she
could never truly love him, yet wil-
ling to risk his life to have her love
this one and false time, he stretched
out a hand and clamped it over Sylva-
na’s mouth, while with the other hand
he gripped her shoulder hard. Her
eyes shot open, she squealed and
kicked and clawed. He held her firm-
ly, waiting for the chemistry of love
to take effect. But it did ngt. As-
tounded, he examined his fingertips.
They were dry, and he realized that in
his urgency to know love he had ex-
hausted the potency of his touch. He
was fiill of despair, knowing he would
have to flee the city . . . but then Syl-
vana’s struggles ceased. The panic in
her eyes softened, and she drew him
into an embrace, whispering that her
fearful reaction was due to the shock
of being awakened so roughly, that
she had been hoping for this moment
ever since they had met. And with the

The Arcevoalo

97

power of truth which — though di-
minished by the truth of love — still
allowed him a modicum of clear sight,
the arcevoalo saw that, indeed, she
had been hoping for this moment.
She seemed charged with desire,
overwhelmed by a passion no less ar-
dent than his. But when he entered
her, sinking into her plush warmth,
he felt a nugget of chill against his
belly; he knew it was the diamond
bound by its silken thread, yet he
could not help thinking of it as a
node of her quintessential self that
not even love could dissolve.

Some hours later, after the power
of truth had been drained for the
arcevoalo, Sylvana spoke to him.
“Leave me,” she said. “1 have no more
use for you.” She was standing by the
open door, smiling at him; the threads
of her telltale jewels dangled from
her right hand.

“What do you mean?” he asked.
“What use have you made of me?” He
was shocked by the wealth of cruelty
in her smile, by her transformation
from the voluptuous, the soft, into
this glacial creature with glittering
eyes.

She laughed — a thin, hard laugh
that seemed to chart the jagged edge
of a vengeful thought. “I’ve never
known such a fool,” she said. “It’s
hard to believe you’re even a man. I
wondered if I’d have to drag you into
my bed.”

Again she laughed, and, suddenly
afraid, the arcevoalo pulled on his

clothes and ran, her derisive laughter
chasing him down the hail and out
into the dove-gray dawn of Sangue do
Lume, whose machines were already
beginning to restore a fraudulent per-
fection to its flaking walls.

A

# mil that day the arcevoalo kept to
his room in the Valverde house. He
knew he should leave the city before
Sylvana called down judgment upon
him, but he found that he could not
leave her, no matter how little affec-
tion she had for him. He understood
now the nature of love, its blurred,
irrational compulsions, its torments
and its joys, and he doubted it would
ever loosen its grip on him. But un-
derstanding it had made his choice
no easier, and so perhaps he did not
entirely understand, perhaps he did
not see that love enforces its own
continuum of choices, even upon an
inhuman celebrant. There was no end
to his confusion. One moment he
would feel drawn back to the jungle,
the next he would wonder how he
could have considered such a reck-
less course. At dusk his reverie alter-
nated between a perception of form-
less urges and a sequence of memories
in which JoJo Merin Nascimento
staggered through a green hell, his
brain afire and death a poisoned sug-
ar clotting his veins. Night fell, and
having some frail hope that Sylvana
would do nothing, that things might
go on as before, the arcevoalo left the

98

Fantasy & Science Fiction

house and walked toward the main
square.

Though it was no holiday, though
no fete had been scheduled, of all the
beautiful nights in Sangue do Lume,
this night came the closest to perfec-
tion, marred only by the whining of
the machines functioning at peak lev-
els. In the square the palm crowns
flickered like green torches beneath
an unequaled array of stars, and beams
of light from the windows shone like
benedictions upon the fountain,
whose spouts cast up sprays of silver
droplets that fell to the ear as a cas-
cade of guitar notes. Against the back-
drop of gray stones and white stucco,
the graceful attitudes of the young
men and women, strolling and duel-
ing, lost in a haze of mutual admira-
tion, seemed a tapestry come to life.
Even the arcevoalo’s grim mood was
brightened by the scene, but on draw-
ing near the group of young men ga-
thered about Orlando, on hearing Or-
lando’s boastful voice, his mood
darkened once again.

“. . . his blessing to Sylvana and I,”
Orlando was saying. “We’ll be wed
during the Festival of Erzulie.’’

The arcevoalo pushed through the
group of listeners and confronted Or-
lando, too enraged to speak. Orlando
put a hand on his shoulder. “My
friend!’’ he said. “Great news!’’ But
the arcevoalo struck his hand aside
and said, “Your news is a lie! You will
never marry her!’’

It may have been that Orlando

thought his friend was still trying to
protect him from a loveless marriage,
for he said, “Don’t worry ...”

“It’s I who made love to her last
night,’’ the arcevoalo cut in. “And it’s
I who’ll marry her.’’

Orlando reached for his cintral,
whose green tendrils were dangling
over the edge of the fountain; but he
hesitated. Perhaps it was friendship
that stayed his hand, or perhaps he
believed that the arcevoalo’s friend-
ship was so great that he would lie
and risk a duel to prevent the mar-
riage.

Then a woman laughed — a thin
derisive laugh.

The arcevoalo turned and saw Syl-
vana and Caudez standing a dozen
feet away. Hanging from a gold chain
about Sylvana’s neck was her telltale
emerald, its blackness expressing the
malefic use she had made of her body
the previous night. Caudez was smil-
ing, a crescent of white teeth show-
ing forth from his thicket of a beard.

Finally convinced that his friend
had told the truth, Orlando’s face
twisted into an aggrieved knot, dis-
playing his humiliation and pain. He
picked. up the cintral and lashed out
at the arcevoalo. The sharp tendrils
slithered through the air like liquid
green swords; but at the last second
— recognizing their ally — they
veered aside, spasmed, and drooped
lifelessly from Orlando’s hand. His
mind a boil of rage, unable by logic to
direct his anger toward his true ene-

The Arcevoalo

99

my, the arcevoalo plucked a knife
from a bystander’s sash and plunged
it deep into Orlando’s chest. As Or-
lando toppled onto his back, a hush
fell over the assemblage, for never
had they witnessed a death more
beautiful than that of the Valverde’s
eldest son. The palms inclined their
spiky heads, the fountain wept tears
of crystalline music. Orlando’s fea-
tures aquired a noble rectitude they
had not had in life; his blood shone
with a saintly radiance and appeared
to be spelling out a new language of
poetry over the cobblestones.

“Now!” cried Caudez do Tuscan-
duva, his black eyes throwing off glints
that were no reflections but sparks of
an inner fire banked high. “Now has
the great wrong done my father by
the House of Valverde been avenged!
And not by my hand!”

Murmurs of admiration for the
sublety of his vengeance spread
through the crowd. But the arcevoalo
— gone cold with the horror of his
act, full of self-loathing at having al-
lowed himself to be manipulated —
advanced upon Caudez and Sylvana,
his knife at the ready.

“Kill him!” shouted Caudez, ex-
horting the young men. “I have no
quarrel with his choice of victims,
but he has struck down a man whose
weapon failed him. Such cowardice
must not go unpunished!”

And the young men, who had al-
ways suspected the arcevoalo of be-
ing lowborn and thus had no love for

1M

him, ranged themselves in front of
Caudez and Sylvana, posing a barrier
of grim faces and shining knives.

When men refer to the arcevoalo,
they speak not only of the one who
stood then beside the fountain, but
also of his incarnations, and they will
tell you that none of these ever fought
so bravely in victory as did their orig-
inal in defeat that night in Sangue do
Lume. Fueled by the potentials of
hatred and love (though that love
had been mingled with bitterness),
he spun and leaped, living in a chaos
of agonized faces and flowers of blood
blooming on silk blouses; and while
the sad music of the fountain evolved
into a skirling tantara, he left more
than twenty dead in his wake, cutting
a path toward Caudez and Sylvana. He
received wounds that would have
killed a man yet merely served to
goad him on, and utilizing all his
moon-given elusiveness, he avoided
the most consequential of the young
men’s thrusts. In the end, however,
there were too many young men, too
many knives, and, weakening, he knew
he would not be able to reach the
governor and his daughter.

There came a moment of calm in
the storm of battle, a moment when
nine of the young men had hemmed
the arcevoalo in against the fountain.
Others waited their chance behind
them. They were wary of him now,
yet confident, and they all wore one
expression: the dogged, stuporous ex-
pression that comes with the antici-

FanUsy & Science Fiction

pation of a slaughter. Their unanimity
weakened the arcevoalo further, and
he thought it might be best^to lay his
weapon down and accept his fate.
The young men sidled nearer, shift-
ing their knives from hand to hand;
the music of the fountain built to a
glorious crescendo of trumpets and
guitars, and the pale, beautiful bodies
of the dead enmeshed in a lacework
of blood seemed to be entreating the
arcevoalo, tempting him to join them
in their eternal poise. But in the next
moment he spotted Caudez smiling
at him between the shoulders of his
adversaries, and Sylvana laughing at
his side. That sight rekindled the arce-
voalo’s rage. With an open-throated
scream, choosing his target in a flash
of poignant bitterness, he hurled his
knife. The blade whirled end over
end, accumulating silver fire, grow-
ing brighter and brighter until its hilt
sprouted from Sylvana’s breast. Be-
fore anyone could take note of the
artful character of her death, she sank
beneath the feet of the milling de-
fenders, leaving Caudez to stare in
horror at the droplets of her blood
stippling his chest. And then, seizing
the opportunity provided by the
young men’s consternation, the arce-
voalo ran from the square, through
the flawless streets and into the Fa-
velm, past the hovel where Ana and
his unborn son awaited an unguess-
able future in the light of her dying
god. He clambered over the gray me-
tal wall and sprinted into the jungle.

Such was the efficacy of the city’s
machines that even the natural beau-
ty of the moonlit jungle had been en-
hanced. It seemed to the arcevoalo
that he was passing through an intri-
cate design of silver and black, fig-
ured by the glowing eyes of those
creatures who had come forth from
hiding to honor his return. Despite
his wounds, his panic, he had a sense
of homecoming, of peacefulness and
dominion. He came at length to a
mountaintop east of Sangue do Lume
and paused there to catch his breath.
His muscles urged him onward, but
his thoughts — heavy with the poi-
sons of murder and betrayal — were
a sickly ballast holding him in place.
At any second, ships would arrow up
from the city to track him, and he
thought now that he would welcome
them.

But as he stood there, grieving
and empty of hope, a shadow ob-
scured the stars; a great rippling field
of shadow that swooped down and
wrappied him in its filmy, almost weight-
less folds. He felt himself lifted and
borne eastward and — after what
could have been no more than a mat-
ter of seconds — gently lowered to
earth. Through the dim opacity of the
folds, he made out a high canopy of
leaves and branches, silvery shafts of
moonlight, and a bed of ferns. He
could feel the creature merging with
him, its folds becoming fibrous, grad-
ually thickening to a husk, and — re-
calling the darkness that had passed

The Arcevoalo

101

from him at birth — he realized that
this incomprehensible shadow was
the death that had been born with
him, had haunted all his nights, and
had come at last to define the shape
of his life.

The world dwindled to a dark
green vibration, and with half his soul
he yearned toward the pleasures of
the city, toward love, toward all the
sweet futilities of the human condi-
tion. But with the other half he ex-
ulted in the knowledge that his pur-
pose had been achieved, that he had
understtKKl the nature of man. And
(a final intuition) he knew that some-
day, long after he had decayed into a
clay of old memories, just as it had
with the bones of Jollo Merin Nasci-
mento, the jungle would breed from
his bones a new creature, who —
guided by his understanding — would
make of love a weapon and of war a
passion, and would bring inspired

tactics to the eternal game. This know-
ledge gave him a measure of happi-
ness, but that was soon eroded by his
fear of what lay — or did not lie—
ahead.

Something nudged the outside of
the thickening husk. The arcevoalo
peered out, straining to see, and spied
the ruby eyes of a malgatdn peering
in at him, come to give him the com-
fort of dreams. Grateful, not wanting
to feel the snip of death’s black scis-
sors, he concentrated on those strange
pupils, watching them shift and dis-
solve and grow spidery, and then it
was as if he were running again, run-
ning in the joyful way he had before
he had reached Sangue do Lume,
running in a harmony of green light
and birds, in a wind that sang like a
harp on fire, in a moment that seemed
to last forever and lead beyond to
other lives.

102

Fantasy & Science Fiction

Michael Shea rUncle Thggs/' May 1986) has become known for
the witty, irreverent horror in his short stories, and '*Fill It With
Regular*' is no exception. In this tale he takes an everyday event
— the filling of one's gas tank — to an alien, eerie and amusing
conclusion.

Fill It with Regular

BY

MICHAEL SHEA

I

I t was just past 3*00 a.m. An all-
night gas station stood on its lonely
little asphalt atoll, a delta bordered
by two convergent country roads.
Not far beyond this confluence, the
two-lane blacktop passed under a free-
way. Up there, along lOl’s unsleep-
ing corridors, big semis boomed and
groaned, their frequency abated at
this hour, but still clocklike. Down
here on ground level, however, be-
low the imperial elevation of that via-
duct, all was country darkness, coun-
try silence full of crickets. The black
shapes of the roadside trees shrank
and islanded the station’s light be-
tween them, big, half-naked oaks,
crooked against the stars.

The attendant stood by one of the

pumps. His khaki jacket — with “Al”
stitched in red over one pocket—
was thin, but he stood relaxed, even
slack-armed, in the chill air. In fact, in
the absence of muscle tone from his
sharp-nosed face, there was some-
thing faintly moronic.

A pair of headlights sank down
the freeway off-ramp and approached.
Al shifted slightly on his feet and
worked his fingers. An old, dented
blue Maverick sighed on worn tires
up to the pumps. The driver was a
large, rather drunk-looking man. His
horn-rims, one hinge sutured with
black tape, sat on his nose a shade
askew. Two or three of his lower
teeth were missing, and his chin stub-
ble was gray in patches. His air was
cordial.

“A glad good evening to you! Just
fill this puppy to the brim with Reg-
ular!”

Fin It With ReguUr

103

A1 nodded eagerly. Still, an uncer-
tainty entered his manner after he
unholstered the gas nozzle. The drunk
blinked, smacked his forehead.

“Ach! Where’s my mini/?”

He hauled himself from the car,
and an empty Ranier Ale can followed
him out and tap-danced briefly on the
asphalt. Dragging out his keys and
moving sternwards, he unlocked his
gas cap, set it on the trunk lid, and
returned to his seat, all with a kind of
staggery flourish.

A1 filled the tank. A gush of excess
foamed down the Maverick’s tail, mak-
ing a clean stripe across the dirty li-
cense plate. A1 released the trigger.
Still hesitant, but moving hopefully
now, A1 reholstered the nozzle. The
drunk, squinting at the gauge, hoist-
ed his hip for money — his unseen
feet, shifting, raised the musical jos-
tle of bottles. Peeling open a distort-
ed lump of wallet, the drunk poked
inside. He rummaged. He blinked. He
raised a look heavenward and signed
as at some relentless, long-known
enemy, now plaguing him anew.

“Will you believe this, man? Will
you fuckin’ believe this? I’ve only got
a ten here! I should have looked! I
should have fuckin’ looked before I
told you to fill it! But hey, listen. Look
here. I don’t live far off. Over that way
somewhere. Take this now, and I’ll
bring you back the other two fifty, if
not tonight, then first thing in the
morning.”

A1 was watching him with a kind

of raptness. He kept nodding nerv-
ously, as if in sign of noting important
information. The drunk beamed.

“You’re an ace, man! An ace! Just
stick that in your pocket, and before
another moon rises. I’ll be back with
its two little buddies! God bless!”

Looking genuinely moved, the
drunk cracked another beer and
sipped it as he drove off, dribbling
gas at the stem. As he dipped the
driveway, his gas cap tumbled off the
trunk and rolled to the gutter as he
accelerated away.

A1 resumed his position by the
Regular pump. Then a thought seem-
ed to strike him. He went into the
office, and through its connecting
door into the locked garage. Here the
legs of a man on a mechanic’s under-
dolly thrust out from beneath a sta-
tion wagon with its hood up. A1 got
some wrenches from one of the
shelves along the back wall and laid
them on .the pavement beside the
dolly.

Standing again by the pump, A1
seemed less catatonic than he had.
His hands were more restive, task-
ready, and his lips moved faintly, as
though rehearsing words. From the
freeway, another pair of headlights
sank toward the empty corridors of
oak shadows. A big new Cadillac slid
its flawless, dark-cream paint job up
to the pumps.

It held a middle-aged couple, the
Fennermans. They had been dining
with their friends the Crosses and

104

Fantasy & Science Fiction

were in a pleasant mood. Fred Cross,
who also ran a new-car dealership,
had let slip to Ted enough about his
business to make Ted realize that his
own lot had been doing pretty damn
well lately by comparison. Gail Fen-
nerman, for her part, had been deeply
pleased by the enchiladas Muriel
Cross had made, and no less pleased
by the seven margaritas she had
washed them down with. A1 marched
to the window as Ted rolled it down.
He looked hopeful now, determined.

“Hi! Fill it with Regular?” His
energy bordered on the intimidat-
ing.

“Oh no!” Ted Fennerman chuckled
uneasily. “Supreme! It’s Supreme all
the way with these babies, right?”

“Ah!” said Al, seeming crestfallen.
He brightened at a thought. “Want to
give me your keys?”

“Right,” said Ted, separating out
his gas key so that the rest hung from
it, and putting it between Al’s finger-
tips. Al marched back, unlocked the
cap, laid it on the trunk. He got the
hose, which he handled now with in-
creased panache. He began to fill the
Caddy’s tank.

“What a strange man,” Gail Fen-
nerman said.

“I’ll say. I guess, though, that you’d
have to be some kind of a loony to
take a job like this in the first place,
the boredom would drive a sane guy
nuts.”

“Teddy?”

“Yeah?”

“Isn’t he filling us with Regular
anyway?”

“Hey! Hey! Stop that!” Ted thrust
almost half himself out the window.
“Cut that out!”

“Right,” said Al. Even then the
overflow puddled beneath the plate.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”
keened Ted. “Didn’t I tell you Su-
preme? “Didn’t I say that ^)ecifically?*'

Hanging up the nozzle, Al gave a
thoughtful nod. “You did say Su-
preme specifically. Yes.” He tucked
the Fennermans* keys into the pocket
containing the drunk’s ten-dollar bill.

“Hey!” Ted half-erupted again.
“Gimme back my keysV"

“Oh,” said Al, blinking. Returning
the keys, he cleared his throat. “It’s
O.K. if you just give me ten dollars.
You can bring the rest by later to-
night, or first thing in the morning.”

“I don’t understand you,” Ted Fen-
nerman said slowly, astonishedly. He
forgot even to contest payment.
“Here’s my credit card.”

“Oh,” said Al. He inspected the
card carefully, and then put it in his
pocket with the ten-dollar bill.

“What the hell are you doing?”
Ted sounded hushed, awed. “Give
me back my god-damned credit
card!”

Al — perplexed, mouth ajar — re-
turned the card. Pocketing it, Ted
Fennerman hesitated only an instant
over the legal risk of leaving without
paying — then he fired up the car and
pulled out. Gail’s head turned, she

FUl It With Reguhr

105

spoke, and the Caddy lurched to a
stop just short of the driveway. Ted
popped out. Keeping his hands on
the car, as if for cover, he hurried as-
tern of her, replaced the gas cap,
dove back inside, and slid the car up
into the darkness between the star-
hung trees.

A1 walked to the driveway, picked
the drunk’s gas cap from the gutter,
and gazed at it, nodding owlishly. He
pocketed it and returned to the Reg-
ular pump. Unholstering the nozzle,
he put its tip to his mouth and trig-
gered himself a couple of hearty
gulps. Smacking his lips, he seemed
to judge the savor. He went into the
office and came out with a small, dark
sack.

He went to one of the brass-
hatched intake valves whereby the
trucks fed the station’s cisterns. He
keyed it open, dug from the bag a
handful of black dust, and dropped it
in. He shut the hatch, returned the
bag to the office. He resumed his post
at the Regular pump. Again his lips
seemed to practice, voicelessly, as his
eyes looked around at the country
darkness environing his little wedge
of light.

II

N

I ^ext morning around eight, Ted
Fennerman started siphoning the gas
from his tank into a pair of cans from
the garage. The engine had gotten

detectably shuddery in just the few
miles home from that miserable sta-
tion. There had seemed a kind of
juvenile delinquent fiin in the siphon-
ing just at first, but his first draw was
too prolonged, and he got a mouthful
that soured the whole thing. He
cursed the oil company whose logo
had crowned that station, a seeming
oasis down in the shadowlands, as
seen from 101, which they had crest-
ed so serenely at sixty-five. Why hadn't
he kept going? It was his own fault for
being so compulsive about keeping
the tank full. He called his local sta-
tion to send out a tow truck with
some Supreme.

With tepid breakfast coffee, he
rinsed the fumes from his mouth.
When the tow truck arrived, he rec-
ognized the kid driving it — slight
and pimply, but pqjpy. Today, though,
he was so vague and slothful in his
actions that Ted took the can and
poured the* gas into the Caddy him-
self. When Ted tipped him a buck,
the kid didn’t seem to know what to
do with it. WTien the hell was hap-
pening? The Caddy thrummed and
pinged all the way in to his car lot in
Santa Rosa. He ground his teeth and
swore as he drove. He might as well
not have bothered changing the gas
at all. He got to his desk around ten in
a foul mood. He realized that, unmis-
takably, he had the beginnings of a
sore throat.

It was a little after eleven when

106

Fantasy & Science Fiction

the drunk, an artist named Ken. got
up. He had a good reason for getting
up so early: he had to go see Dale and
borrow a hundred dollars from his
academic friend. Starburst Paperbacks
still owed Ken six hundred on his last
cover, but far be it from them to
speed payment. He washed his face.
He warmed up some pizza and poured
a beer. He hummed between sips,
waiting for the cheese to remelt. It
was a nuisance having to borrow mo-
ney, but afterward they could drink
and bullshit and watch cable TV—
Dale got all the channels.

He went out to his car around
noon. He threw his traveling sketch
pad — for ideas that obtruded them-
selves upon his drinking time — in
through the passenger window and
circled round behind the car. Feeling
an odd crackliness to the asphalt un-
derfoot, he paused, looked down —
and noticed he lacked his gas cap.

“Shit!” he said.

He drove back to the gas station,
trying to keep all his accelerations
smooth. It hadn’t seemed that cold
last night, certainly was not now, yet
the roadway still felt faintly crisp
under his tires. He pulled into the
station. The garage’s overhead door
was now up, displaying someone on
the floor dolly half under a station
wagon. A1 was standing near the Reg-
ular pump. Ken got out.

“Hi, All” he cried, noting only
now the red-stitched name. “Say, did
I leave my gas cap here last night?”

‘Tou sure did!”

“Ah, great! That’s a relief!” There
was a smiling pause. “Well,” Ken
prodded. “Can 1 have it back?”

“Why don’t I get it for you? It’s in
the office!”

“Great idea!” Ken hung aro ind
the doorway of the garage while A1
went in. A1 seemed more sure of him-
self, much brisker today. On the oth-
er hand, Ken realized, he hadn’t seen
the guy under the car move very
much at all.

“Ha!” he offered. “Great place for
a nap, hey?” The guy didn’t move or
answer. Ken shrugged. Some assholes
just didn’t have a sense of humor. A1
brought him his cap and smiled:

“Fill her up with Regular for you?”

Ken laughed. “I didn’t lose that
much. Thanks anyway. So long!” In-
wardly he sighed, driving off — the
two fifty was forgotten. He’d scroung-
ed up only two dollars anyway, and
now he could get a sixer of Buckhom
with it. He slid on down Old Red-
wood Highway — which stretched
bright, almost silvery before him—
and smiled skyward at the fresh fall
sunlight.

Gail Fennerman awoke numb, feel-
ing nibbled away around the edges, at
12:30. Before moving, like a swim-
mer who chooses the bit of distant
coast he will strike toward, she de-
termined two of the things she would
do today. First, have a sauna at the
gym. Second, have a flame-broiled

Fill It With Regular

107

patty-melt at the Fem *n Burger. The
first would atone in advance for the
second, for Gail equated sweating
with calorie loss.

She rose. She reached the shower,
her legs feeling of unequal length. In
the kitchen, her protein smoothie
whirled strenuously in the blender,
growling aggressively. Swallowing it
was an act of grim will, such as she
imagined it must take to lift weights,
or learn French.

Confronting her mirror to make
up, she asked it sarcastically: ''Do you
think you can drive? See? It really
makes you look forty-three, eveiy^ day
of it?” She didn't even like the smell
of alcohol, but these delicious cock-
tails, like Bloody Marys or margaritas,
were her downfall. Last night she
had, self-mockingly, kept mental
count of her margaritas, but, perverse-
ly, this only enhanced the pleasure of
the indulgence. Ted was partly to
blame — he didn't even go to the
gym anymore, even just for the Jacuz-
zi. His getting so paunchy, after he’d
promised, undermined her own re-
solve. Not much past two o’clock, she
locked the front door and crunched
down the driveway to her Buick.

Crunched? On firm asphalt? She
paused. The sun, sloping past zenith,
delicately shadowed a kind of trans-
lucent fur. perhaps a quarter inch
deep, covering most of the drive,
with an especially thick circular patch
just behind where Ted always parked
the Cadillac. She scuffed at the stuff

with the toe of her designer track
shoe. It was crackly, but seemed to
be giving rather than breaking under
the prodding. She shook her head. As
a SoCal girl, she had always deplored
the creepy growths that northern
California’s lushness fostered. She
fired up the Buick and turned on the
Montavani tape she had left in the
deck. She sped down the silvery high-
way — it was rather glittery today,
wasn’t it?

At the gym the strangest thing
happened. With two other women,
one of whom she knew slightly, she
was sitting in the sauna. Tina Clay-
more, who managed a boutique in
Coddingtown Center, was saying to
Gail:

"Boy, this dry heat can sure get to
your nose and throat sometimes, can’t
it?”

"Yeah. Mine really feels scratchy,
too. What’s that on your legs, Tina?”

Both bent to inspect Tina’s pallid
thighs, flattened to ovoids on the
sweat-dark bench. Her thighs looked
dusty. A vanishingly fine, faint soot
besprinkled them. Tina brushed at it,
but it smeared into her sweat. "Look!”
the third woman told Gail. "It’s on
your arms and legs, too!”

"Yow! And yours, too!”

For a moment the three ladies
twisted and splayed themselves to
present all their surfaces to the weak,
sulfiirous light — patting and spank-
ing at their limbs, till all at once the
scene they made struck them and

108

Fantasy & Science Fiction

they all shakily laughed, and trooped
out.

They were in the showers, soap-
ing lustily, when the instructress got
back to them. She pushed her twenty-
year-old, T-shirted upper half into
the room and told them brightly:

“I was right! Rod says it’s just a
little soot — the gas heaters have
been burning a little sooty all day!”

The girl’s sunny self-approval
vexed Tina Claymore, to whom soap-
suds gave clownishly exaggerated
breasts, as though some grotesque
lichen had overgrown them. ‘‘Well
that’s just peachy! Peachy! Why didn’t
you tell us?”

‘‘I haven’t been in the sauna to-
day,” the girl said, looking stung. ‘‘Rod
just forgot, I guess. It’ll wash right
off, won’t it?”

‘‘But it still itches. And what about
my nose and throat? They’re scratchy,
too!”

Gail privately agreed that her skin
also felt a bit prickly, but she didn’t
detain herself to make an issue of it.
Purposefully, she dried and dressed.
It was patty-melt time at the Fern ’n
Burger.

From there she called Ted at four,
to see if there were any errands that
needed running before things started
closing. Ted didn’t feel like talking.
He had ‘‘a goddamned sore throat.”
He said he’d meet her at eight at The
Cattleman’s for dinner, and hung up.
Just as she returned to her table, her
food arrived. It was exquisite, except

that the meat had an odd extra crisp-
ness and — very faint, so discreet as
to be rather pleasing — a slight bitter-
ness.

Ill

^^ale was an entomologist out at
Sonoma State. He had bought one of
the little motor courts — proto-
motels of thirties vintage — still to be
found decaying along Old River High-
way, which had been the 101 of the
pre-freeway era. The office and the
first two cabins were built of a piece,
and this structure Dale had inhabit-
ed. By knocking out the connecting
walls, he had created a single large
living space with three bathroom cu-
bicles, the office kitchen, and the old
registration desk left standing by the
office door, the only one Dale made
use of

A Charlie Musselwhite tape launch-
ed and wailed room-fillingly. Near
the entry the TV, sans sound track,
beamed the Playboy Channel, which
Ken, a great lounger and sprawler,
watched from the couch. He had a
Buckhorn in one hand, the remote
control in the other, and in his
thoughts the hard truth, ever less ig-
norable, that they were out of beer.
Dale was more of a pacer and an arm
waver, and he was near the rear of
the room. Here were the bookshelves
and dart board, and here he liked to
do much of his ranting and raving.

Fill It With Regubr

109

while throwing darts. A blown-up
photo of an ant, pinned to a cork-
board, was his target. Big and sham-
bling though Dale was, and eruptive
with his restless thoughts, time and
again the patterns of six darts he
threw came creditably close to pin-
ning all the insect’s feet — Ken
glanced over and checked now and
then. Dale had paused in his mono-
logue, and Ken sighed.

“So come on, man! Money me! We
need some more beer — you’ve been
pecking at that one can for the last
hour.’’

“It was the only one I got my
hands on in your whole six-pack!’’

“Wait,” said Ken, palm raised.
There was a wet T-shirt contest on
the screen, and the guy with the
bucket had finally gotten to the bru-
nette. Ken watched her get it. “So?”
he resumed. “All the more reason to
get some more. ”

“It’s amazing!” Dale grinned, pok-
ing another dart into the air. It landed
in the ant’s upper right tarsus. “How
routinely, with such minimal effort,
you get money out of me! A few solici-
tational gestures — a bow, a tap of the
antennae, a nudge to the gullet — and
I disgorge a big, fat drop of my hard-
earned nectar. Just like Atta texana."

“Don’t be an asshole. You know
you have it, you know you’ll get it
back, you know in the meantime I’ll
buy beer and enchiladas with it, and
you know you’re going to lend it to
me in the end!”

“That’s exactly it!” Dale crowed.
“I’m going to do it! And I seem to
have no more power over regurgitat-
ing this sugary blob of monetary en-
ergy than the poor insect does!”

“You’re a scientist. Dale! Energy
is collected in nature only to be util-
ized, dispensed, dissipated — con-
verted into some other form. Beer, in
this case.”

Dale, not listening, smiled at his
own thought: “And I let you sap me,
you see, of that sugary blob, for one
reason alone, one that should make
all scientists humble. Because even
the smartest of them — why, even /—
even 1 am no more essentially free of
my nature than the lowly bugs I
study!” He threw a dart, which lodged
a quarter inch off the mid-right tarsal
claw. Ken regarded Dale.

“1 think that’s just incredibly hum-
ble of you. Dale.”

Dale took up his beer. He began
lis professional patrol of the big
room, pacing comfortably, causing
for Ken two regular eclipses of the
TV screen as he orbited. He said:

“It’s a fact! A fact made banal by
the facile affirmation of the heedless!
You, Kenny, though only an artist,
might guess at the arrogance that can
go with a little knowledge among
scientists. However much as we know
and can do, we mustn’t swagger
through the cosmos. Inevitably, some
form exists that’s perfectly adapted
to exploit us in spite of all our tech-
nical furnishings.”

110

Fantasy & Science Fiction

Ken, musing, laughed. Daleys
length of limb, the seemingly erratic
emphasis of his movements, were ant-
like. ‘i have to buy that image. Dale,
rd like to draw you that way — as an
Atta worker disgorging your wallet
from gaping mandibles.”

Dale was nodding as he paced, as-
senting not to Ken, but to another
dawning insight of his own. ‘‘Look
here, Kenny. You’ve always confessed
that my erudition gives you graphic
inspirations. So to hell with this pid-
dling parasitism — a hundred here, a
hundred there. Let’s get a real mutu-
alism going.” Dale’s orbital speed in-
creased as he warmed to the idea.
‘‘I’ll ape that noble scale insect so
famous for her fungal parasite. I’ll be
industrious Cfoionaspis cornu pump-
ing the sap of learning from my aca-
demic branch. You, of course, will be
Septobasidium, the fungus whose
spores 1 ingest and that sprouts from
the interstices of my dorsal sclera. At
first, you see, 1 house you, and I feed
your oeuvre from my brimming brain.
Soon, you’re making real bucks in the
art racket, and the tables turn. You
house me grandly, as the embower-
ing fungus doth the bug! Muriel moves
in, we mate and reproduce and live as
your coddled tenants from then on.
The analogy’s not perfect, of course.
Septobasidium sterilizes its living
plant pot. It’s her sisters’ offspring
that the fungal tenement roofs and
feeds with its plumb sporangia. In
our case, my own reproduction would

be fostered by the setup — all the
better for science, of course.”

‘‘I dunno. Dale, I can’t quite pic-
ture this one. Me growing out of the
cracks in your dorsal sclera and all.
Suppose I think about it, and mean-
while you give me the fucking money
so we can get some beer?”

Still smiling in the afterglow of his
ironic vision. Dale tossed Ken his
wallet. “Finally!” Ken said. He plucked
the money and tossed the wallet back.
“So let’s make it a ride — take Reibli
through the hills a ways. Bring the Ry
Cooder tape.”

Dale took the tape from the rack.
“Time’s a-wastin’. Sonny!” he said,
following Ken out the door. He
paused to lock it, and turned as Ken
was firing up the Maverick. Where
the exhaust boiled against the drive,
Dale thought he saw an odd glitter,
but he was impatient to ride out and
take the sun, and just got into the car.

Their windows overflowing Cood-
er’s Trouble, Dale patting time on the
doorsill with his jutting elbow, they
roared down Redwood, up Mark West,
and swung onto Reibli, which mean-
dered along the hills just under their
crests. In a pause between cuts, Ken
asked:

“What’s that? That crackling, hear

it?”

They pulled onto the shoulder
and got out. What they found shocked
them. They saw it best when they
squatted on the shoulder and looked
at the road surface along the angle of

Fill It WHh ReguUr

111

incidence of the latening sunlight: a
fine, translucent furriness perhaps a
half inch deep, all over the asphalt. It
was finer, really, than the finest fur,
yet its countless fibrils were made
opulently distinct by the glints of dif-
fraction their innumerable curvatures
shed. The friends gaped at each oth-
er, poked and pinched the stuff.

“As far as you can see!” Ken said,
“the whole road!’*

“It’s tough, Kenny! The tires don’t
crush it! It springs back! And these
little droplet formations all through
it. Like sporangia. Damn if it doesn’t
look like some incredible mold my-
celium.’’

“Road-eating mold?’’

“What can I say? There’s a mold
that eats creosote. I’ve heard . . .’’

“Let’s keep going,’’ They drove
on, without music. Only occasionally
could they see its faint flash, but the
frosty noise of it was continuous,
though it wove easily into the susur-
ration of a moving car. And didn’t it
intensify noticeably as they dropped
more trafficked streets into Santa Ro-
sa? They tried to see if other motor-
ists were noticing it — and then they
turned onto a broad westbound street
that dropped through the center of
town. Now the crush of it was louder
still, its slight resistance to their tires
grew palpable — and this asphalt
laneway to the sinking sun was lad-
dered with ghostly smears of rainbow
no one could miss. Now cars flowing
in both directions were carrying peo-

ple who were pointing out the road-
way to each other. Ken swung north,
and pulled in at Pap’s Liquors on
Mendocino Avenue.

Inside, with his twelve -packs and
quart of Jack Daniels on the counter
between them, Ken asked the woman
at the register:

“What’s with this stuff on the
streets? Has it been like this all day?’’

‘Tou know, for the last hour or
so, everybody's been asking that. I
couldn’t tell what the heck they were
talking about at first. You can really
see these, like, flashes of color off it
now, can’t you?’’ She mused on her
view of the street, as though it were a
picture in a travel brochure, or a tele-
cast. “Oh dear!’’ she cried. “There’s
another one!’’

“Another what?’’

“Poor doggie! We saw one just a
little while ago, and I asked this man
was in here if it could be, you know,
mad, but he said no, when they were
mad they just foamed at the mouth.
Oh dear!’’

The dog, a mixed shepherd, flinch-
ed away and cantered down the side-
walk when Dale, newly amazed, went
out and tried to coax the animal to
hand. It was as if the dog felt some
particular humiliation in its affliction
—to have its all-questioning nose so
strangely furred with a grayish thistle-
down that it could neither sneeze
nor rub away.

Driving back up Redwood, Ken
said, “I know it’s got our attention

112

Fantasy & Science Fiction

now and all, but Td swear it wasn’t
this thick an hour ago. We’d have
heard it through the music.”

“Park right where you were, Ken-
ny. There was something I saw under
your tail pipe ”

This proved to be a patch of mark-
edly thicker and taller road-growth.
“When you first came over, you idled
here a little before killing your en-
gine.”

“I was listening to the last part of
a cut.”

Dale nodded. ‘‘So . . . diffusion by
automotive exhaust?” Both men gazed
up and down the roadway. “I’m going
to make some phone calls,” Dale said,
“and I think I won’t be the only one
doing it.”

‘‘Good idea. I’ll wash us out a
couple of glasses.”

IV

T

■ ed Fennerman sat at his desk, his
chair clicked back at its rest angle.
From his window he looked across
his lot, the enameled candy colors of
mint-new car tops, at the sky. Its
dusky blue was turning purple as
gradually as Ted imagined wine must
ripen in a vat, or whatever they made
wine in.

When business had been good,
this was always an hour Ted savored,
like a liqueur sipped privately. He
watched the arc of 101 that wrapped
the south end of his lot, watched the

dinner-bound traffic’s headlights
coming on like stars. He pictured, in-
dividually, the day’s sales, each shep-
herded singly from his corral of glos-
sy stock, and frisking with their new
owners out to graze on 101 ’s long
pasture and raise the happy roar of
their vitality.

Not so this evening, though busi-
ness had been very good. Tonight,
bone-weary and naggingly sore of
throat, he couldn’t taste the tang of it
all. He’d told his secretary hours ago
that he was out to calls; it seemed
such an effort just to talk. He’d sat
and fought his way through desk work,
but at last ground to a halt. Lines of
text had grown vague and slippery
like snowed-under road; his pen
lurched with a balky clutch, or lost it
on the curves.

What kind of wimp was he? he
asked himself bitterly. A simple god-
damned sore throat, and bam — he
was belly-up on the canvas. It was gal-
ling to feel too weak to strike when
the iron was so hot. He had promised
himself that he would go in on that
new franchise with Clark Mannheim
if things stayed even half as good as
they’d actually been going. Clark
wasn’t going to stand around waiting
to be kissed forever — he’d find
someone else. Ted thought of all those
TV ads where tired businessmen bun-
gled big deals for lack of the right
antihistamine-and-aspirin compound
—dumb, though there was a grain of
truth. You feel just a little off your

riH It WHh Regular

113

feed, and it could cost you some im-
portant moment.

Ted shook himself groggily, to
wake his will. He snapped his chair
up to its no-nonsense angle. He
breathed deeply and punched Clark’s
number. When the receiver clicked
open, he again drew breath for a
hearty greeting. Clark’s voice said:
“Yes?”

“Gullub!” Ted boomed. “Glarg?”

“What? Who is this?”

Ted, as shocked as Clark sounded,
gaped at the phone. He clapped it
back to his head and cried: “Glarg!?
Gellub?!” Now fear raked his heart.
He slammed the phone down,
jumped up. Clicking on his washroom
light, he saw his mouth loom gaping
up to the mirror over the sink, as if to
devour it. An eerie, pale fur thronged
his throat and flourished from his
gums. He moaned, watching his shag-
gy tongue shudder in its weedy pit,
like some hibernating monster tor-
mented by a dream. Ted Fennerman
headed for the hospital without fur-
ther attempts on the phone.

When Gail, after waiting through
half an hour and two piha coladas at
a table at the Cattleman’s, called the
lot, she learned Ted had left long be-
fore without a word to anyone. So
she went back and ordered her sir-
loin and a third colada — a double.

The drink seemed spiritless, but it
did soothe a touch of soreness in her
throat — Ted’s bug no doubt — and
help numb a general itchiness that

had persisted since the sauna. See the
cycle? she asked herself. Get hung
over, get lowered resistance, get sick,
and then you wind up having more
cocktails for relief But she couldn’t
seem to care, and ordered another
double when the steak came.

The restaurant seemed to promote
her lassitude. Usually thronged, it was
rather empty tonight; and in spite of
this, it was short-staffed, too — her
waitress had apologized in advance,
saying they were not only lacking
table help, but were short on cooks,
too. Gail ate. Even with plenty of
horseradish, the steak entertained her
dulled palate only mildly. She finished
it, though well before the last bite,
she was beginning to feel almost drug-
ged, as though she had ingested an
anchor that tried to drag her head af-
ter it as it sank.

To hell with her thoughtless bas-
tard of a husband. He’d forgotten her,
gone home, was already resting.
Thanks to him, she’d been stranded
here to overeat and overdrink, but
she’d waste no more time waiting on
him. She’d get home and get off her
feet. Slowly but decisively, Gail wiped
her lips, rose, and walked out.

She stood in the parking lot. Out
on Montgomery the midevening traf-
fic looked pretty heavy. Did it sound
extra screechy? More brakes and
horns than usual? There! That tow
truck nearly piled into that station
wagon there at the light. She’d have
to be very careful driving home.

114

Fantasy & Science Fiction

“Mrs. Fcnncrman!” It was her
waitress. The girl looked worried as
well as tired. She seemed to stare a
bit at Gail’s face as she said: ‘Tou for-
got your coat. And the check . . .?”

“Oh dear! I’m sorry! I feel so woo-
zy tonight . . The girl was looking
at her face, strangely, as they went
back inside. Gail smiled self-depreca-
tingly at the cashier as she extended
the woman her credit card. The cash-
ier gasped, and Gail, seeing what made
her do so, felt her head wobble at the
shock as though lightly punched: her
own forearm and hand, all silkily be-
furred with an exquisite lawn of pal-
lid fine filaments a quarter inch long,
like freshest, tenderest shoots of
spring.

V

T

■ he windows, long gray with dawn,
were turning buttery with sunrise.
“Jesus Christ!’’ Ken said, keying down
the newscast’s volume. He and Ken
sat in a kind of information trance,
stunned by nightlong revelations. “I
feel like a kid,” Ken said. “After a
three-flick matinee, paralyzed by a
sugar whiteout, my brain gorged with
weird images, coming out into an af-
ternoon sun so bright it hurts. I knew
— I knew I should’ve stocked up bet-
ter yesterday. I mentioned it, right?
And now, God rot me. I’ve got to
drive into town before it’s too late
—before it’s three inches deep.”

Dale shook his head and gestured
at the screen. “Didn’t you see how
traffic’s starting to slip and slide?”

“It still looks steerable to me.
There won’t be much traffic on Red-
wood. It’s now or never.”

“Well, if you break down, stay off
the road walking back. And get some
food. Something in cans, and eatable
cold. Chili or stew.”

Ken rose, scattering empty beer
cans, loath to be reminded of the
fungus’s capacity for rooting in flesh.
Shutting the door after him, he looked
with hate at the drive, where the fun-
gal mat was now a lush two inches
deep. He did a lumbering ballet across
it, his soles cringing from the con-
tact, and hauled himself into the
Maverick. He feared his ill-tuned en-
gine stalling, so he idled till it was
good and warm. It mortified him that
in doing this, he was feeding his
world’s new enemy, helplessly stok-
ing the biological conflagration that
had somehow, overnight, embraced
it. The suspicion nagged him that this
would be just how evolution’s fall-
guys, the adaptively overtaken breeds,
always exited the stage; by a droll,
inadvertent suicide, mechanically rev-
ving up their long-sacred tricks of
survival that the upstart, by some dire
new ingenuity, has turn to death traps.
He gunned onto Old Redwood High-
way’s long mycelial lawn.

It was supple. Its slick toughness
made the curves tricky. At least he
was rolling — his tires could have

Fill It With Regular

115

been fused with the road. It had hap*
pened to thousands of vehicles left
parked overnight on heavily traf-
ficked urban streets, which had been
superabundantly seeded with exhaust-
borne spores. This lush crop’s greedy
upreach was answered by the germi-
nation of a second form of spore, the
strictly wind-bome kind produced by
the road surface growth, and with
which the treads of all cars that had
been driven the day before were
packed. By the time, two hours ago,
the earliest commuters stepped out
to their mounts, many found them
crouched on crumbling flats that were
already half digested by this devil
grass growing from beneath and with-
in. Ken, at some risk, stayed near
forty, knowing his own venerable re-
treads must already be dying from
within.

Maneuver proved little worse than
on a slushy, half-snowed road, but in
fact — wasn’t the fungus beginning
to look met here and there? What was
this, some new wrinkle? Should he
call it in? The thought, an instant lat-
er, forced a laugh from him. Oh yes,
report it! Add his jot of awe and
stupefaction to the general delirium!
Since TV’s Tribal Eye first squinted at
the streets on last night’s six o’clock
news, and blinking anchormen—
raising uncertain voices above the
rush-hour roar — had affirmed the in-
festation, the municipal, technical,
and military sectors of the area had
been caucusing with state authori-

ties. They had clashed and confer-
enced throughout the night, all con-
sensus eluding them. Information-
pooling switchboards were quickly
formed and publicized, and the data
for a sketchy etiology of the eco-
plague were soon gathered. But as
long as continued observation showed
the roads to be drivable, all involved
willingly shunned the contemplation
of their clearest countermeasure—
the interdiction of all public thor-
oughfares. So vast an arrest of circu-
lation, assuming it could even be
brought off, seemed itself a catac-
lysm, a mortal shock that must pro-
duce unguessed-at mayhem among
the bottled masses. They flooded the
media with advisories, put troops and
cops on alert, and waited. And with
the dawn, people started trooping
out to their usual commutes, also
waiting to see what would happen.
As though the simple wonder of the
thing had universally captured peo-
ple’s curiosity, the sheer scope and
unity of it. A fungus, stunningly pro-
liferative, that thrived on hydrocar-
bons of every kind.

Gasoline and some municipal sup-
plies of natural gas were thought to
be its initial vector, at least in Cali-
fornia and others of the heaviest-hit
states. The mechanisms of its contin-
uing diffusion were no mystery. The
fungus’s omniperipheral advance, by
mycelial branching, was incredibly
rapid in itself, of course, through any
food matrix. But with the combustion

116

Fantasy 8t Science Fiction

of that matrix, the mycelium it con-
tained underwent a fusion and a heat-
triggered concentration of genetic
material, and resolved itself into a
gust of exeeedingly small and num-
erous spores. Hence the roadways
were only the first of many zones that
those first vectors had seeded, since
most of a tail pipe’s tillage went aloft
to haunt the troposphere. Were was
the real scope of this thing, and it
made Ken shiver slightly, imagining
that global microsnow, that sooty
seed like a gauze-fine, wide-flung
shroud settling right now — softly,
softly — down upon them all. What
could anybody do but drive out to
business as usual through this awe-
some newness that had been laid up-
on the world?

At the liquor store he called the
hot line on the pay phone. The wet
spots on the mold weren’t news to
the tired-sounding woman he got.
“Enzyme puddles, they think,” she
said bleakly. “Stay off the roads, espe-
cially the freeways.”

“Yeah,” said Ken, who could hear
1 0 1’s roar a quarter mile from where
he stood. He went in and got two
cans of stew, two twelve -packs of
Buckhorn, and a half gallon of Jim
Beam. Reapproaching his car, he saw
two black smears matching his tires’
path, and seeming to melt into the
mold even as he watched. Further
provisionings must surely be made
afoot, and the imbalance of his sup-
plies bothered him. He went back in

and got another half gallon of Beam.

He drove fast, as the few other
cars on Redwood were doing, slew-
ing and screeching. His tires were
spongy now, taunting him with col-
lapse. He rolled past vineyard and
pasture, trailer parks and sprawled
junkyarded country houses. Fine fun-
gal lawns toupeed all asphalt-shin-
gled roofs — white lawns where an-
tennas stood like stark, futuristic
trees. Furred garden hoses lay in yards
like feathered snakes in the grass.
The pallid fuzz outlining window
frames baffled him till he realized the
monomers composing most caulks
were hydrocarbons. On one porch he
saw a shuddering puftball shape —
just discernibly a dog, on its back,
fighting to breathe, its paws kneading
the air. Ken’s rear left tire gasped,
and sagged, and started jouncing. He
braked, the brakes locked, the Mave-
rick came ass-around, crossed the
shoulder, dropped its rear in a rain
ditch, and blew the tire on the right.

Raging, he got out hugging his
bag, hotfooted across the sporulating
mat, and jumped the ditch. He landed
ankle-deep in sweet, sane, earthly
grass — and partly in a cowpat. He
roared some nouns and gerundives,
found and flung an illogical rock at
his car, whose front left tire sank
with a wet cough. Ken broke out a
beer and strode north, hurrying not
to hear the last tire go. He stooped
through the wire and straddled the
wooden fences, and tiptoed the high-

Fill It With Regular

117

way only where berry-choked streams
compelled it. The space he moved
through now was that magnified space
into which everyone emerges from a
failed car — full-scale space, toilsome
and time-swallowing, where to reap
one aim or object, you had to plow
across acres of hours. “1 should Ve
stocked up better,” Ken muttered.
He shifted his burden and cursed the
weight of the stew.

Dale was where he had left him,
but sitting straighter, rapt in the
newscast again. ‘‘Enzyme slicks, Ken-
ny! Like a sudden digestive assault.
What is it, near nine? Look there!”

‘‘Man! That’s 101 north of No-
vato?”

‘‘Yup! Just where the southbound
backup always starts — and 1 think its
being rush hour’s saved a lot of lives.
From there on down, no one was go-
ing very fast when the fungus came
on.”

They watched an aerial view of
confluent freeways where, at this
hour, San Francisco-bound traffic rou-
tinely braked to join a creeping clog
twenty miles long. Today the free-
flowing traffic had come up on the
clog at lower than usual speeds,
though generally drivers had man-
aged to maintain a cautious, coping
flow over this invader of their path.
They came in slower, but the enzy-
matic sweat was brutally sudden in
its increase, and their tires had turned
greasy in their swift liquefaction.
Brakes jammed fruitlessly. With seem-

ing abandon — some with fey, ballet-
ic half turns — cars skied into the
phalanxed bumpers of the idling
backup.

Now the clog sat unmoving on
twenty miles of flats, smoke penciling
up here and there from the rivered
vehicular jigsaw. South of the crazed
skewing of the pileup zone, the jum-
bling of the derelict armada was less
severe, though everywhere were side-
ways chromeboats with crumpled
corners, ram-welded pairs of tailgat-
ing muscle-cars, and jacknifed semis
pillowed on luckless imports. Diced
safety glass, like a sugar spill, every-
where jeweled the prickly vigor, the
pubic wetness of the mold.

The network’s helicopter caught
four others in its scan, two winching
up wounded. The anchorman’s voice-
over announced his own craft’s re-
turn south to base to be refurbished
for rescue work. Thereafter, his shak-
ily improvised script tended to re-
lapse to a formula, an awed dirge:
‘‘And of course here we’re seeing 101
as it approaches San Rafael . . . And
this of course is 101 climbing past
Marin ...” Already most of the vehi-
cles were abandoned, while the peo-
ple in their tens of thousands, in four
streams choppy with contrariety,
trudged along both sides of the free-
way’s two corridors, as clotted in this
progress as they had been in their
cars. As an image, Ken found it very
moving. As if he viewed an epochal
event — mankind at last abjuring

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Fantasy & Science Fiction

some vast, ambiguous enterprise, a
millennial pilgrimage frozen in its
tracks by a cataclysmic unison of
doubt, and abandoned at long last, all
dismounting, all returning their my-
riad of separate ways. Their sun-blaz-
oned fleet, while it roared, had
seemed aimed, an army. It looked
now like an aborted stampede.

“The shine of it! Christ!” Dale al-
most enthused. “It's almost puddled
with enzymes.”

“Tell me about it. Did you hear
my car pull in? It’s ass-in-a-ditch
two miles back on four flats. Have a
beer.”

“And food?”

“In the bag. You know I just can't
buy it, any kind of Russki gene-engi-
neering angle. Why conquer a place
so you can't get around in it once it's
yours? They'd make something that
went for the people primarily.”

“This stuff doesn't do so bad on
people,” Dale said from the kitchen,
plying a can opener.

“Yeah, but you've got to practical-
ly gargle or smoke spores to get it
going."

Dale found a fork and came back
to his chair. “It's not Russki, of course.
It's off-world, obviously.” He began
gobbling stew. Ken nodded readily,
but found he had to clear his throat.

“Right. Designed by another en-
vironment. And damn if I can imagine
what kind of setup could produce . . .
this"'

Dale sat forking, musing. His fork-

ing slowed a beat or two, and he in-
terlarded it with conjectures. “Bio-
logically hot world? Teeming? Epochs
of floral/faunal explosion. Organic
sumps capped. With limestone by shal-
low seas, like here? Vast petrochemi-
cal deposits, in any case. But lots of
venting to the surface. By vulcanism?
Other seismic events? So plenty of tar
pools, asphalt seeps, burning vents of
natural gas.” Dale forked up the last
muddy lump, dropped his fork in the
empty can, belched, and sighed. Ken,
though bleakly, had to laugh.

“Somehow, I see you. Dale. A ti-
tanothere of that alien Tertiary, shuf-
fling to a flaming tar pit, munching
the sludge.”

“The flaming vents,” added Dale
composedly, “would promote the
evolution of combustive sporulation,
of course.”

It sobered them a moment, this
naming of that most frightening fun-
gal trick. The ragged carbon micro-
shells that their seemingly destruc-
tive birth created for the spores made
them infinitely responsive to air cur-
rents, amazingly invasive and adher-
ent once in contact with a food ma-
trix. Was there even now a just per-
ceptible tickle of their fall through
the air? They sat feeling the noise and
stir of this new day rising around
them, the unimaginable nationwide
disorders, the dinosaurian bawl of
mired commerce, of eighteen-wheel
giants who lay half devoured by the
very paths they trod.

FiN It With Regular

119

VI

N

I ^ear the close of that same day,
Sheri Klugman, Gail Fennerman’s
younger sister, blinked away tears,
turning her face for a moment to the
windows and the honey-and-roses
light of dusk. Roy Hummer sat with
bhis eyes commiserately downcast.
He was experienced in the resurgences
of grief his clients suffered in these
interviews, but he was also exceed-
ingly tired. This was his twelfth trans-
action since noon — all twelve of
them involving loved ones in the Fen-
nermans’ condition.

“I’m sorry,’’ Sheri said, resettling
with a sigh the burden of composure
on her shoulders. “It’s just this awful
suddenness of everything ...”

“Please. You have our entire sym-
pathy. And I know it’s a terrible added
burden, this time limit for disposal—
disposition of your loved ones.”

“Yes . . . well, I guess it’s lucky
that we live close enough to attend
. . . Midnight tonight does feel so . . .
hurried, though.”

“Yes, of course, we’re terribly sor-
ry.” Watch that tone of voice, Roy
told himself. “It’s certainly never been
our way of doing things, this tactless
hurry. But you can sec that from a
sani — a medical viewpoint . . .?”

Grief rcsurged in Sheri, overflow-
ing as plaintiveness. “Do you really
think that an open-casket ceremony
isn’t . . . ?”

“No, that’s quite definite. I’m
afraid.” Roy paused, and warned him-
self again. “You see, with this thing
there’s just nothing we can do. It’s
too tough to be, ah, shaved off. Even
if it could be, there is a considerable,
an extensive amount of shriveling,
frankly — do you follow me?” He saw
that Sheri, with the inattentiveness of
sorrow, was looking out the window
again. Roy felt frayed and gritty. He
wanted a shower. He wanted to sleep.
Sheri’s eyes were full again. The wom-
an was plainly dazed, powerless to
leave alone the few futilities remain-
ing of her sister. With the helpless
iteration of bereavement, she said:

“They were just both so definite
—whenever it came up, I mean, about
both wanting to be cremated—”

“No way,” Roy Hummer snapped.
“That’s all there is to it. We’re re-
specting the emergency ordinance
100 percent. So please just take it or
leave it. Miss Klugman.”

VII

C

^crew the whole effort. Why strug-
gle?” Ken asked, though he didn’t
stop working. It was the following af-
ternoon. He was encasing his shoe
and ankle in an aluminum foil bootie,
crinkling it on sheet by sheet, secur-
ing it round the ankle with rubber
bands. Dale already had his booties
on. He tossed Ken a paper particle
mask and stowed others, left over

120

Fantasy & Science Fiction

from his remodeling, into one of the
two knapsacks lying readied on the
counter.

“Hunger and thirst,” he answered.
“Curiosity.”

“Boy. Look at that. Dale,” The
TV’s copter-bome eye scanned down
over an oil tanker docked at Long
Beach. The voice-over was saying:
“As you can see, the fittings of those
off-load hoses are densely covered
with the mold, and as I say, the sam-
ples from what’s still in the tanker as
well as what’s now in the onshore
tanks have both tested positive for in-
festation. You can see, too, how these
pipelines to the holding tanks in the
hills are also covered. Officials have
told us that this is merely a surface
growth on a bituminous cover that’s
put on all gas pipeline to protect it
from corrosion and weathering ...”

“Christ!” Dale said. “What’s it mat-
ter? That tanker was half off-loaded
before they stopped! Three-quarters
of a million barrels!”

“Know what they said last night,
while you were asleep?” Ken asked,
booting his other foot. “Seems they
inject natural gas into the ground —
to force up the pressure of crude
they’re pumping? So it turns out a lot
of this natural gas also tests positive
for infestation.”

“Hoo boy,” Dale said quietly. The
newsman was now narrating a flyby
of one of the Long Beach refineries. It
belonged, he said, to one of the first
of the big oil companies to comply

with the federal immediate-shutdown
order, acting within twenty-four scant
hours of receiving it. The furnaces
beneath, and bum-off pipes above;
its fractionating towers had been
quenched for several hours now. Ev-
ery valve and juncture in its python’s
nest of pipes was muffed with mold.
Gaskets everywhere — however thick,
sandwiched at whatever pressures —
were digested to monomers to feed
the alien biopolymer, and wherever
gas drizzled in result, the mycelium
grew in ghastly whiskers, along the
undersides of pipe, in streamers trail-
ing down to puddles, like moss dust-
ing every secret little creek of leak-
age woven through the installation.
And of course, as the hills and graded
bluffs the storage tanks stood on were
all capped with asphalt, the whole
plant was environed with sweeping
pastures of the pale predator.

“Think of it, Kenny.” Dale still
sounded subdued. “Those bum-off
pipes just shut off this morning. Giant
spore nozzles, pumping the atmos-
phere full like it was just another
giant tank.”

The voice-over, having discoursed
on gaskets, was saying: “Chuck, I
think, was pointing out earlier that
here in L.A., the inversion layer has
made airborne infestation of petrol-
eum products in general an especial-
ly severe problem. Crated TVs still in
the factory warehouses have been
opened, and the insulation of their
wiring found infested. And that, in

FiH It With Reguhr

121

fact, is why we’re going to have this
intermission in our telecopter report,
because we’re very concerned to have
our copter return to base for regular
checks of the fuel line. That’s why
you see us turning around right now,
and what’s why it’s back to you now,
Chuck.”

The studio anchorman appeared,
conjured by his name. “Right, Dave,
and thank you. And you’ll be back on
the air about noon for continued
coverage of the Long Beach area?”

‘‘That’s right, Chuck. I. , . . Ah, it
seems I’ll have to sign off a little
quicker than. . . . the pilot says we
have a sudden loss of fuel pressure
that - MY GOD, THE ENGINE’S
STOPPED!”

The studio men had cut back to
the copter’s video transmission, but
the camera, being aimed out the cop-
ter’s windshield, was half eclipsed by
Dave’s panicked profile. Some move-
ment of the man’s terror had killed
the sound. He turned a blind stare,
mouth moving, to the camera, then
back to the view before them all.
This now tilted and — shockingly-
rushed upward.

The studio, with quick cannibal-
ism, cut in the video from a second
copter, clearly fleeing the scene as it
recorded Dave’s craft smashing to
fire against the mossy, gas-rilled
grounds. Smoke welled up. Flame
bloomed, branched and probed root-
like through the jungled steel, and
then the fleeing copter cut transmis-

sion and the studio anchor team was
back on screen, so stunned that Chuck
actually gave an astonished laugh.
‘‘That really happened!” he said. “1
mean . . .”

Dale and Ken put on their packs,
but stood waiting till a ground crew
cut in transmission from a hilltop a
mile from the refinery. There was a
raving note in the reporter’s voice
left from the fury he had just seen. He
told of the storage tanks’ explosion
moments before. The pair watched
the black upward avalanche, the new
hosts of spores storming up to mingle
with their fellows under the inver-
sion layer. Ken cracked the last beer,
made room in it for bourbon, and
spiked it. ‘‘So let’s go,” he said.

They left the TV on — an irration-
al, magical measure against its failure
with the inevitable loss of electrical
insulation — but there was relief in
the firmness with which Dale shut
and locked the door on its global
window. They now marched — reso-
lute, if shaky — into their local piece
of the catastrophe, a share that
seemed more manageable. The day
was cloudless. Golden light waxed
the blackish branches of the oaks and
drenched the fields flanking Old Red-
wood Highway, while through these
fields a fair number of folk trudged,
townward or back. Dividing them,
the translucent luxuriance of the
roadway was riverlike, something that
made the people on either side more
separate than could the gap alone.

122

Fantasy & Science Fiction

They all walked through a country si-
lence never known here with the
freeway running so near. They looked
rather dwarfed — in their unshelled
littleness — by the green acres they
had always zipped past. They traded
calls here and there, in voices also
dwarfed by the big, breeze -whispery
trees. Many of them wore bandannas
like silent-Western stickup man, and
some wore masks like Ken and Dale’s.

Both, as they walked in their
bright-booted guise, felt a touch of
unmeant circus gaiety in the specta-
cle. Now dozens of cars, mired with-
in a half hour of Ken’s mishap, were
derelict on the ermined asphalt ~
whimsically angled, or half in ditches,
or squared off in the disarray of im-
pact. All were richly bearded on their
greased underbellies; the interiors of
most, those with plastic upholstery,
were lavishly robed. There was some-
thing of Mardi Gras in the long, dis-
jointed rumba line of them.

“Floats in the Fungus Bowl Pa-
rade,’’ Ken said. “Aborted due to lack
of tires.’’ The flanking power lines
with their tufted insulation suggest-
ed streamers, while a service station
just ahead offered racks of furry tires,
like festively frosted doughnuts. Dale
gave a laugh that was half a groan.

“I tell you, Kenny, we’re doomed!
Look at those sporangia. I mean, as if
the combustive spores aren’t enough,
we’re getting this incredible ground
crop in just three days! I mean, this
stuff is fast. We either hit the bush.

head for the unpaved hills, or we’ve
had it. And you know, all the time it
keeps nagging at me: how the hell did
this stuff get here? I mean, did it just
blow across space?’’

“How the hell do I know? Here.’’
Ken took the bottle from his pack
and tilted some bourbon in under his
mask, and Dale followed suit. “Once
we pick up some more beers at Lark-
field, we’ll both feel better,’’ Ken
advised.

There was a crowd at Larkfield,
and beer’s price had gone up sharply.
They proceeded with three more
twelve-packs, Ken grumbling. They
gingerfooted on their silver feet
through the shopping center — all
paved — and across Mark West Road.
After that there were fields to walk
on again. Lifting their masks often to
swallow beer, they climbed the high-
way’s gradual rise to an overview of
101, which swept near at this point,
just above town.

The freeway’s curve, the outward
surge of it, acted as their TV had
done, brought home afresh the con-
tinental scope of this plague, the
wheels of trade and travel locked in
this hoarfrost coast to coast. They
paused to ply the bourbon, hundreds
of captured vehicles visible from here.
All the sunlight, and the beauteous
difhactions of the sporangia, made
them seem numinous things, crude
Elder Gods overtaken by an exuber-
ant cosmos of simpler, more vigorous
beings: a tow truck, its oily boom so

FHI It With Regular

123

bearded it seemed some exotic sail-
backed being; a toppled bus like
a giant bug cocooned or spider-
shrouded—

“Hey. Look there,’* Ken said. “That
Rolls behind the bus? It’s idling.
Christ, you’d think the jackass
could’ve—’’

“No, there’s a guy there that just
leaned in and started it up! Look,
there he is, moving up to that green
van, see?’’

“Jesus Christ! That’s Al! Guy that
works in a gas station up the road.
What the hell’s he doingT*

Al’s awkwardness and odd hesita-
tions of three days ago were gone. He
was a man of experience now. He
grasped the van’s door handle as sure-
ly as its owner might. The van yielded
what he sought — the keys — for he
geared it to neutral, fired it up,
warmed it, and then left it idling on
what remained to it of fuel.

Al surveyed the way he had come,
and then the way he was headed. He
looked up at the sun and seemed to
come to a decision. He sat down on
the step-up of a big semi’s cab. He
settled back with an odd complete-
ness, so the step well and door re-
ceived and propped him fully. Then
he opened his shirt. Dividing his chest

and stomach was a vertical red scar.
Al grasped the flaps of this seam as
briskly as he had his shirt, and spread
open a slick chasm from which a
multilegged blackness, about a small
dog’s size, came nimbling down across
his lap, and sprang thence to the fun-
gal lawn. The hands that freed it fell
slack as its last leg was plucked from
the incision.

The thing was glossy and quick.
There was much of the insect about
its structure, about its scissoring, mul-
tiple mouthparts, with which it now
began to gorge on the sporangia that
sparkled everywhere around its stilt-
ing legs. It wandered out to graze the
jeweled laneway, while slump-headed
Al stared empty-eyed.

“Ah yes,” Dale said in a slow,
strange voice. “A biologically hot
world indeed. Full of remarkable
forms. You know what, Kenny? See
the pickup in that guy’s driveway
over there? See the gun racks? Let’s
go borrow a rifle, or bring him over
here.”

“There must be thousands of them,
man. All over.”

“Yeah. But we can get this one.”

This seemed to waken Ken a bit.
“Right on,” he said.

124

Fantasy & Science Fiction

THE RELATIVITY
OF WRONG

I received a letter from a reader
the other day. It was hand written in
crabbed penmanship so that it was
very difficult to read. Nevertheless, I
tried to make it out just in case it
might prove to be important.

In the first sentence, he told me
he was majoring in English Literature
but felt he needed to teach me sci-
ence. (I sighed a bit, for I knew very
few English Lit majors who are equip-
ped to teach me science, but I am
very aware of the vast state of my ig-
norance, and I am prepared to learn
as much as I can from anyone, how-
ever low in the social scale, so I read
on.)

It seemed that in one of my innu-
merable essays, here and elsewhere, I
had expressed a certain gladness at
living in a century in which we finally
got the basis of the Universe straight.

I didn’t go into detail in the mat-
ter, but what I meant was that we
now know the basic rules governing
the Universe, together with the gravi-
tational interrelationships of its gross
components, as shown in the theory
of relativity worked out between 1905
and 1916. We also know the basic
rules governing the subatomic parti-
cles and their interrelationships, since
these are very neatly described by the
quantum theory worked out between
1900 and 1930. What’s more, we
have found that the galaxies and clus-

ters of galaxies are the basic units of the physical Universe, as discov-
ered between 1920 and 1930.

These are all twentieth century discoveries, you see.

The young specialist in English Lit, having quoted me, went on to
lecture me severely on the fact that in every century, people have
thought they understood the Universe at last, and in every century they
proved to be wrong. It follows that the one thing we can say about our
modem “loiowledge” is that it is wrong.

The young man then quoted with approval what Socrates had said on
learning that the Delphic oracle had proclaimed him the wisest man in
Greece. “If I am the wisest man,” said Socrates, “it is because 1 alone
know that I know nothing.” The implication was that I was very foolish
because I was under the impression I knew a great deal.

Alas, none of this was new to me. (There is very little that is new to
me; 1 wish my correspondents would realize this. ) This particular thesis
was addressed to me a quarter of a century ago by John Campbell, who
specialized in irritating me. He also told me that all theories are proven
wrong in time.

My answer to him was, “John, when people thought the earth was
flat, they were wrong. When people thought the earth was spherical,
they were wrong. But if you think that thinking the earth is spherical is
just as wrong as thinking the earth is flat, then your view is wronger
than both of them put together.”

The basic trouble, you see, is that people think that “right” and
“wrong” are absolute, that everything that isn’t perfectly and complete-
ly right is totally and equally wrong.

However, I don’t think that’s so. It seems to me that right and wrong
are fiizzy concepts, and I will devote this essay to an explanation of why
I think so.

First, let me dispose of Socrates because I am sick and tired of this
pretense that knowing you know nothing is a mark of wisdom.

No one knows nothing. In a matter of days, babies learn to recognize
their mothers.

Socrates would agree, of course, and explain that knowledge of trivia
is not what he means. He means that in the great abstractions over
which human beings debate, one should start without preconceived,
unexamined notions, and that he alone knew this. (What an enormously
arrogant claim!)

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Fantasy & Science Fiction

in his discussions of such matters as “What is justice?” or “What is
virtue?” he took the attitude that he knew nothing and had to he in-
structed by others. (This is called “Socratic irony,” for Socrates knew
very well that he knew a great deal more than the poor souls he was
picking on. ) By pretending ignorance, Socrates lured others into pro-
pounding their views on such abstractions. Socrates, then, by a series of
ignorant-sounding questions, forced the others into such a melange of
self-contradictions that they would finally break down and admit they
didn’t know what they were talking about.

It is the mark of the marvelous toleration of the Athenians that they
let this continue for decades and that it wasn’t till Socrates turned
seventy, that they broke down and forced him to drink poison.

Now where do we get the notion that “right” and “wrong” are
absolutes? It seems to me that this arises in the early grades, when
children who know very little are taught by teachers who know very
little more.

Young children learn spelling and arithmetic, for instance, and here
we tumble into apparent absolutes.

How do you spell sugar? Answer: s-u-g-a-r. That is right. Anything
else is wrong.

How much is 2 + 2? The answer is 4. That is right. Anything else is
wrong.

Having exact answers, and having absolute rights and wrongs, mini-
mizes the necessity of thinking, and that pleases both students and
teachers. For that reason, students and teachers alike prefer short
answer tests to essay tests; multiple choice over blank short answer
tests; and true-false tests over multiple choice.

But short answer tests are, to my way of thinking, useless as a meas-
ure of the student’s understanding of a subject. They are merely a test of
the efficiency of his ability to memorize.

You can see what I mean as soon as you admit that right and wrong
are relative.

How do you spell “sugar”? Suppose Alice spells it p-q-z-z-f and Gene-
vieve spells it s-h-u-g-e-r. Both are wrong, but is there any doubt that
Alice is wronger than Genevieve? For that matter, I think it is possible to
argue that Genevieve’s spelling is superior to the “right” one.

Or suppose you spell “sugar”: s-u-c-r-o-s-e, or Cj^H^^O,,. Strictly
speaking, you are wrong each time, but you’re displaying a certain

Science

127

knowledge of the subject beyond conventional spelling.

Suppose, then, the test question was: How many different ways can
you spell “sugar”? Justify each.

Naturally, the student would have to do a lot of thinking and, in the
end, exhibit how much or how little he knows. The teacher would also
have to do a lot of thinking in the attempt to evaluate how much or how
little the student knows. Both, I imagine, would be outraged.

Again, how much is 2 + 2? Suppose Joseph says? 2 + 2 = purple, while
Maxwell says: 2 + 2 = 17. Both are wrong, but isn’t it fair to say that
Joseph is wronger than Maxwell?

Suppose you said: 2 + 2 = an integer. You’d be right, wouldn’t you?
Or suppose you said: 2 + 2 = an even integer. You’d be rather righter. Or
suppose you said? 2 + 2 = 3. 999. Wouldn’t you be nearly right?

If the teacher wants 4 for an answer and won’t distinguish between
the various wrongs, doesn’t that set an unnecessary limit to under-
standing?

Suppose the question is, how much is 9 + 5, and you answer 2. Will
you not be excoriated and held up to ridicule, and will you not be told
that 9 + 5 = 14?

If you were then told that 9 hours had passed since midnight and it
was therefore 9 o’clock, and were asked what time it would be in 5
more hours, and you answered 14 o’clock on the grounds that 9 + 5 =
14, would you not be excoriated again, and told that it would be 2
o’clock? Apparently, in that case, 9 + 5 = 2 after all.

Or again suppose, Richard says: 2 + 2 = 11, and before the teacher
can send him home with a note to his mother, he adds, “To the base 3,
of course.” He’d be right.

Here’s another example. The teacher asks: “Who is the 40th Presi-
dent of the United States?” and Barbara says, “There isn’t any, teacher.”

“Wrong!” says the teacher, “Ronald Reagan is the 40th President of
the United States.”

“Not at all,” says Barbara, “I have here a list of all the men who have
served as President of the United States under the Constitution,, from
George Washington to Ronald Reagan, and there are only 39 of them, so
there is no 40th President.”

“Ah,” says the teacher, “but Grover Cleveland served two non-
consecutive terms, one from 1885 to 1889, and the second from 1893
to 1897. He counts as both the 22nd and 24th President. That is why
Ronald Reagan is the 39th person to serve as President of the United

128

Fantasy & Science Fiction

States, and is, at the same time, the 40th President of the United States.”

Isn’t that ridiculous? Why should a person counted twice if his terms
are non-consecutive, and only once if he served two consecutive terms?
Pure convention! Yet Barbara is marked wrong — just as wrong as if she
had said the 40th President of the United States is Fidel Castro.

Therefore, when my friend the English Literature expert tells me
that in every century, scientists think they have worked out the Universe
and are cdways wrong, what I want to know is bow wrong are they? Are
they always wrong to the same degree? Let’s take an example.

In the early days of civilization, the general feeling was that the Earth
was flat.

This was not because people were stupid, or because they were
intent on believing silly things. They felt it was flat on the basis of sound
evidence. It was not just a matter of “That’s how it looks,” because the
Earth does not look flat. It looks chaotically bumpy, with hills, valleys,
ravines, and so on.

Of course, there are plains where, over limited areas, the Earth’s
surface does look fairly flat. One of those plains is in the Tigris-
Euphrates area where the first historical civilization (one with writing)
developed, that of the Sumerians.

Perhaps it was the appearance of the plain that may have persuaded
the clever Sumerians to accept the generalization that the Earth was flat;
that if you somehow evened out all the elevations and depressions, you
would be left with flatness. Contributing to the notion may have been
the fact that stretches of water (ponds and lakes) looked pretty flat on
quiet days.

Another way of looking at it is to ask, what is the “curvature” of
Earth’s surface? Over a considerable length, how much does the surface
deviate (on the average) from perfect flatness? The flat Earth theory
would make it seem that the surface doesn’t deviate from flatness at all,
that its curvature is 0 to the mile.

Nowadays, of course, we are taught that the flat-earth theory is
wrong, that it is all wrong, terribly wrong, absolutely. But it isn’t. The
curvature of the Earth is nearly 0 to the mile, so that although the
flat-Earth theory is wrong, it happens to be nearly right. That’s why the
theory lasted so long.

There were reasons, to be sure, to find the flat-earth theory unsatis-
factory; and, about 350 B.C., the Greek philosopher

Science

129

Aristotle summarized them. First, certain stars disappeared beyond the
southern hemisphere as one travelled north and beyond the northern
hemisphere as one travelled south. Second, the Earth’s shadow on the
Moon during a lunar eclipse was always the arc of a circle. Third, here
on Earth itself, ships disappeared beyond the horizon hull first in what-
ever direction they were travelling.

All three observations could not be reasonably explained if the
Earth’s surface were flat, but could be explained by assuming the Earth
to be a sphere.

What’s more, Aristotle believed that all solid matter tended to move
toward a common center, and if solid matter did this, it would end up as
a sphere. A given volume of matter is, on the average, closer to a com-
mon center if it is a sphere than if it is any other shape whatever.

About a century after Aristotle, the Greek philosopher Eratosthenes
noted that the Sun cast a shadow of different lengths at different latitudes
(all the shadows would be the same length if the Earth’s surface were
flat). From the difference in shadow lengths, he calculated the size of the
Earthly sphere, and it turned out to be 25,000 miles in circumference.

The curvature of such a sphere is about 0.00001 2 miles to the mile, a
quantity very close to 0 miles to the mile as you can see, and one not
easily measured by the techniques at the disposal of the ancients. The
tiny difference between 0 and 0.000012 accounts for the fact that it
took so long to pass from the flat Earth to the spherical Earth.

Mind you, even a tiny difference, such as that between 0 and
0.0000 1 2 can be extremely important. That difference mounts up. The
Earth cannot be mapped over large areas with any accuracy at all if the
difference isn’t taken into account and if the Earth isn’t considered
spherical rather than a flat surface. Long ocean voyages can’t be under-
taken with any reasonable way of locating one’s own position in the
ocean unless the Earth is considered spherical rather than flat.

Furthermore, the flat Earth presupposes the possibility of an inflnite
Earth, or of the existence of an “end” to the surface. The spherical
Earth, however, postulates an Earth that is both endless and yet finite,
and it is the latter postulate that is consistent with all later findings.

So although the flat-Earth theory is only slightly wrong and is a credit
to its inventors, all things considered, it is wrong enough to be dis-
carded in favor of the spherical-Earth theory.

And yet is the Earth a sphere?

130

Fantasy & Science Fiction

No, it is not a sphere, not in the strict mathematical sense. A sphere
has certain mathematical properties — for instance, all diameters (that
is, all straight lines that pass from one point on its surface through the
center to another point on its vSurface) have the same length.

That, however, is not true of the Earth. Various diameters of the
Earth differ in length.

What gave people the notion the Earth wasn’t a true sphere? To
begin with, the Sun and Moon have outlines that are perfect circles
within the limits of measurement in the early days of the telescope. This
is consistent with the supposition that the Sun and Moon are perfectly
spherical in shape.

However, when Jupiter and Saturn were observed by the first tele-
scopic observers, it became quickly apparent that the outlines of those
planets were not circles, but distinct ellipses. That meant that Jupiter
and Saturn were not true spheres.

Isaac Newton, toward the end of the 17th Century, showed that a
massive body would form a sphere under the pull of gravitational forces
(exactly as Aristotle had argued), but only if it were not rotating. If it
were rotating, a centrifugal effect would be set up which would lift the
body’s substance against gravity, and this effect would be greater the
closer to the equator you progressed. The effect would also be greater
the more rapidly a spherical object rotated, and Jupiter and Saturn
rotated very rapidly indeed.

The Earth rotated much more slowly than Jupiter or Saturn so the
effect should be smaller, but it should still be there. Actual measure-
ments of the curvature of the Earth were carried out in the 1 8th Cen-
tury and Newton was proved correct.

The Earth has an equatorial bulge, in other words. It is flattened at
the poles. It is an “oblate spheroid’’ rather than a sphere. This means
that the various diameters of the Earth differ in length. The longest
diameters are any of those that stretch from one point on the equator to
an opposite point on the equator. This “equatorial diameter’’ is 12,755
kilometers (7,927 miles). The shortest diameter is from the north pole
to the south pole, and this “polar diameter” is 1 2,7 1 1 kilometers ( 7,900
miles).

The difference between the longest and shortest diameters is 44
kilometers ( 27 miles), and that means that the “oblateness” of the Earth
(its departure from true sphericity) is 44/12755 or 0.0034. This
amounts to 1/3 of 1 percent.

Science

131

To put it another way, on a flat surface, curvature is 0 miles per mile
everywhere. On Earth’s spherical surface, curvature is 0.000012 miles
per mile everywhere (or 8 inches per mile). On Earth’s oblate sphe-
roidical surface, the curvature varies from 7.973 inches to the mile to
8.027 inches to the mile.

The correction in going from spherical to oblate spheroidal is much
smaller than going from flat to spherical. Therefore, although the notion
of the Earth as sphere is wrong, strictly speaking, it is not as wrong as
the notion of the Earth as flat.

Even the oblate-spheroidal notion of the Earth is wrong, strictly
speaking. In 1958, when the satellite “Vanguard 1“ was put into orbit
about the Earth, it was able to measure the local gravitational pull of the
Earth — and therefore its shape — with unprecedented precision. It
turned out that the equatorial bulge south of the equator was slightly
bulgier than the bulge north of the equator, and that the south pole
sea-level was slightly nearer the center of the Earth than the north pole
sea- level was.

There seemed no other way of describing this than by saying the
Earth was “pear-shaped,” and at once many people decided that the
Earth was nothing like a sphere but was shaped like a Bartlett pear
dangling in space. Actually, the pear-like deviation from oblate spheroid
perfect was a matter of yards rather than miles, and the adjustment of
curvature was in the millionths of inches per mile.

In short, my English Lit friend, living in a mental world of absolute
rights and wrongs may be imagining that because all theories are
tjurong, the Earth may be thought spherical now, but cubical next cen-
tury, and a hollow icosahedron the next, and a doughnut-shape the one
after.

What actually happens is that once scientists get hold of a good
concept they gradually refine and extend it with greater and greater
subtlety as their instruments of measurement improve. Theories are not
so much wrong as incomplete.

This can be pointed out in many other cases than just the shape of
the Earth. Even when a new theory seems to represent a revolution, it
usually arises out of small refinements. If something more than a small
refinement were needed, then the old theory would never have endured.

Copernicus switched from an Earth -centered planetary system to a
Sun-centered one. In doing so, he switched from something that was

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Fantasy & Science Fiction

obvious to something that was apparently ridiculous. However, it was a
matter of finding better ways of calculating the motion of the planets in
the sky and, eventually, the geocentric theory was just left behind. It was
precisely because the old theory gave results that were fairly good by
the measurement standards of the time that kept it in being so long.

Again, it is because the geological formations of the Earth change so
slowly and the living things upon it evolve so slowly that it seemed
reasonable at first to suppose that there was no change and that Earth
and life always existed as they did today. If that were so, it made no
difference whether Earth and life were billions of years old or thou-
sands. Thousands were easier to grasp.

But when careful observation showed that Earth and life were
changing at a rate that was very tiny but not zero, then it became clear
that Earth and life had to be very old. Modern geology came into being,
and so did the notion of biological evolution.

If the rate of change were more rapid, geology and evolution would
have reached their modern state in ancient times. It is only because the
difference between the rate of change in a static Universe and an evolu-
tionary one is that between zero and very nearly zero that the creation-
ists can continue propagating their folly.

Again, how about the twp great theories of the twentieth century:
relativity and quantum mechanics?

Newton’s theories of motion and gravitation were very close to
right, and they would have been absolutely right if only the speed of
light were infinite. However, the speed of light is finite, and that had to
be taken into account in Einstein’s relativistic equations, which were an
extension and refinement of Newton’s equations.

You might say that the difference between infinite and finite is itself
infinite, so why didn’t Newton’s equations fall to the ground at once?
Let’s put it another way and ask how long it takes light to travel over a
distance of a meter.

If light travelled at infinite speed, it would take light 0 seconds to
travel a meter. At the speed at which light actually travels, however, it
takes it 0.0000000033 seconds. It is that difference between 0 and
0.0000000033 that Einstein corrected for.

Conceptually, the correction was as important as the the correction
of Earth’s curvature from 0 to 8 inches per mile was. Speeding sub-
atomic particles wouldn’t behave the way they do without the correc-
tion, nor would particle accelerators work the way they do, nor nuclear

Science

133

bombs explode, nor the stars shine. Nevertheless, it was a tiny correc-
tion, and it is no wonder that Newton in his time could not allow for it,
since he was limited in his observations to speeds and distances over
which the correction was insignificant.

Again, where the pre-quantum view of physics fell short was that it
didn’t allow for the “graininess” of the Universe. All forms of energy had
been thought to be continuous and to be capable of division into indef-
initely smaller and smaller quantities.

This turned out to be not so. Energy comes in quanta, the size of
which is dependent upon something call Planck’s constant. If Planck’s
constant were equal to 0 erg-seconds, then energy would be contin-
uous, and there would be no grain to the Universe. Planck’s constant,
however, is equal to 0.0000000000000000000000000066 erg-seconds.
That is indeed a tiny deviation from zero, so tiny that ordinary questions
of energy in every-day life need not concern themselves with it. When,
however, you deal with subatomic particles, the graininess is sufficient-
ly large in comparison to make it impossible to deal with them without
taking quantum considerations into account.

Since the refinements in theory grow smaller and smaller, even quite
ancient theories must have been sufficiently right to allow advances to
be made, advances that were not wiped out by subsequent refinements.

The Greeks introduced the notion of latitude and longitude, for
instance, and made reasonable maps of the Mediterranean basin even
without taking sphericity into account, and we still use latitude and
longitude today.

The Sumerians were probably the first to establish the principle that
planetary movements in the sky exhibit regularity and can be predicted,
and they proceeded to work out ways of doing so even though they
assumed the Earth to be the center of the Universe. Their measurements
have been enormously refined but the principle remains.

Newton’s theory of gravitation, while incomplete over vast dis-
tances and enormous speeds, is perfectly suitable for the Solar system.
Halley’s Comet appears punctually as Newton’s theory of gravitation
and laws of motion predict. All of rocketry is based on Newton, and
“Voyager H” reached Uranus within a second of the predicted time.
None of these things were outlawed by relativity.

In the 19th Century, before quantum theory was dreamed of, the
laws of thermodynamics were established, including the conservation

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Fantasy & Science Fictk>n

of energy as the first law, and the inevitable increase of entropy as the
second law. Certain other conservation laws such as those of momen-
tum, angular momentum, and electric charge were also established. So
were Maxwell’s laws of electromagnetism. All remained firmly en-
trenched even after quantum theory came in.

Naturally, the theories we now have might be considered wrong in
the simplistic sense of my English Lit correspondent, but in a much
truer and subtler sense, they need only be considered incomplete.

For instance, quantum theory has produced something called ’’quan-
tum weirdness,” which brings into serious question the very nature of
reality and which produces philosophical conundrums that physicists
simply can’t seem to agree upon. It may be that we have reached a point
where the human brain can no longer grasp matters, or it may be that
quantum theory is incomplete and that once it is properly extended, all
the “weirdness” will disappear.

Again, quantum theory and relativity seem to be independent of
each other, so that while quantum theory makes it seem possible that
three of the four known interactions can be combined into one mathe-
matical system, gravitation — the realm of relativity — as yet seems
intransigent.

If quantum theory and relativity can be combined, a true “unified
field theory” may become possible.

If all this is done, however, it would be a still finer refinement that
would affect the edges of the known — the nature of the big bang and
the creation of the Universe, the properties at the center of black holes,
some subtle points about the evolution of galaxies and supernovas, and
so on.

Virtually all that we know today, however, would remain untouched
and when I say I am glad that I live in a century when the Universe is
essentially understood, I think I am justified.

Coming next month

“Face Value” a powerful new SF story by Karen Joy Fowler;
Glory” a Hollywood fantasy by Ron Goulart; also new stories
by Gerald Jonas, Bradley Denton, Jane Yolen and others.

The November issue is on sale October 1.

Science

135

In which a Russian bureaucrat, on the Moscow-Leningrad
overnight express, finds an empty compartment — and en-
counters a chilling surprise . . .

The Fellow
Traveler

BY

H

JOHN BRUNNER

I at pulled well down on his
balding head against a penetrating
spring drizzle, coat tightly buttoned
around his paunchy frame, Pavel Dmi-
trovich Prokudin paid off his taxi not
in front of the station but on its west
side, where one could walk straight
to the platform without negotiating
the milling throng around the book-
ing offices. He had no need to buy a
ticket; as an official of the state rail-
way system, he was entitled to a per-
manent pass, and the secretary of an
old and influential friend had con-
firmed a reservation for him on the
phone. He was in a cheerful mood;
his business in Moscow — with that
same friend, Boris Ivanovich Vassi-
lyev of the ministry — had gone well,
and as a result he was free of the anx-
ieties that had plagued him for the
past couple of months.

He was a little later than he had

intended, though; it lacked barely ten
minutes of 2300, the departure time
of the Red Arrow, the Moscow-Lenin-
grad overnight express.

He looked around for someone to
carry his bags to the train, and realized
with abrupt annoyance that the por-
ters were all busy. Just ahead of where
the taxi had set him down, two Ikarus
buses were discharging a full com-
plement of passengers, chivied along
by Intourist couriers, while their lug-
gage was being hastily loaded onto
trolleys.

Despite the rain that misted his
glasses, Prokudin knew exactly what
he was looking at, for he had seen the
same uncountable times. Here was
some foreign tour group, or more
likely a commercial or cultural dele-
gation, which meant that the Kras-
naya Strela would be full to capacity.
He had told Boris’s secretary to insist

Copyright • 1986 Brunner Fact & Fiction Ltd.

13S

Fantasy It Science Fiction

on a compartment to himself, but in
these circumstances. . . .

Much put out, he gathered his be-
longings: suitcase in one hand; in the
other, and under the other arm, bags
and packages containing the fruits of
a brief shopping expedition he had
been able to make this afternoon.
There was a present for his wife, of
course, and another — considerably
more expensive — for a young lady
who worked as a script editor at Len-
film; and even a present for himself,
in the shape of two bottles of best-
quality Georgian brandy; these he had
not had to pay for. Carrying that lot
was awkward, but he managed.

The delegation, he saw now, was
composed of Africans: their faces all
shades of brown and black, sonae of
them wearing incongruous raincoats
over loose pajamalike outfits that
could offer little protection from the
chill. How would they have managed
had they arrived a month or two ago,
when the western part of the country
lay in the grip of its worst winter in
seven years?

Still, it was spring now; the thaw
had come, and with it a thaw in his
own personal affairs. He was eager to
get home and back to work.

Striding past the uncertain for-
eigners, he made his way to the fifth
carriage. Its provodnitsa, fat and mid-
dle-aged in her dark uniform jacket
and trousers, stood beside the door-
way, engaged in heated conversation
with the senior Intourist courier. They

were arguing over flapping sheets of
paper, no doubt the list of passengers
assigned to each compartment. Pro-
kudin interrupted, showing his pass;
having barely glanced at it, the con-
ductress waved him by under the
resentful gaze of the otherwise do-
cile Africans, who were not merely
cold but obviously very tired.

At this end of the corridor was lo-
cated the boiler from which pas-
sengers could obtain hot water for
tea. It had not yet been lighted, but
half a dozen black men who had man-
aged to board ahead of their compan-
ions were clustered hopefully around
it. He pushed between them and con-
tinued toward the rear. The compart-
ment he had specified was next but
one to the lavatory, the best location;
the endmost one was liable to be noi-
sy in the middle of the night.

Its door was open. He turned to
enter, and checked. On the left-hand
bed lay a suitcase, a coat so wet with
rain it should have been hung up, and
a pair of gloves.

The last thing he wanted was to
spend the night with a complete
stranger who probably didn’t speak a
word of Russian, might have peculiar
personal habits, and could scarcely
be refused a share of the fine brandy
with which he planned to have a pri-
vate celebration on the way home.

Naturally, if his unexpected fel-
low traveler had been like the one
Boris had had wished on him. . . .
Granted, at his age he should have

The Fellow Traveler

137

known better, but one could scarcely
blame the guy for taking advantage of
such an opportunity. Even that plea-
sant surprise, though, had turned out
to have drawbacks in the long run: a
fact for which he, Prokudin, felt pro-
foundly grateful.

Fuming, he set down his burdens
on the other bed and marched back
to have a word with the conductress.
There was always a chance she could
put the African elsewhere.

But she was still outside, and the
argument was getting even louder.
Apparently, owing to some bureau-
cratic mix-up, two of the couriers
were going to have to be moved to a
“hard” section of the train, where
four passengers instead of two shared
each compartment. It looked as
though he was condemned to put up
with things as they were.

By chance, though, as he turned
back past the provodnitsa’s tiny of-
fice opposite the water heater, his
eye was caught by a form lying on the
shelf that serv'ed for a desk. It was a
standard compartment-assignment
list, with two names entered against
each number except the last. That
space, he realized, did not contain
names, but a comment scrawled in
black pencil. The writing was atro-
cious, but he managed to decipher it.
It said, “Door catch jammed. Pre-
viously reported.”

Hmm! So the end compartment
was in fact vacant! Well, it was worth
a try. . . .

He hurried along the corridor
again. From long experience he knew
that, although the door catches did
sometimes stick, they could usually
be freed by a really determined at-
tack. Sometimes, however, people
were too afraid of damaging state
property to use the necessary amount
of force.

Grasping the handle of the sliding
door, he braced one foot against the
edge of the frame and gave a mighty
tug.

The door opened with no resist-
ance whatsoever.

So unexpectedly did it yield that
he nearly lost his balance. Uttering an
oath, minded to haul the conductress
over the coals for inefficiency, he
turned around, and saw that the last
of the Africans was being urged
aboard, it being now 2259.

On reflection, it would be better
to file a report on arrival than risk the
damned woman trying to order him
back to his assigned bed. There was
nothing wrong with the empty com-
partment, except that — he sniffed
— the air was rather stale. The beds
were both made up; the bedding
might be a little damp, perhaps, but
after a few slugs of brandy he wouldn’t
care about trifles like that. . . .

Any moment the African might re-
turn to the adjacent compartment. If
he saw a Russian moving out, he might
lodge a complaint about racial preju-
dice. Prokudin had no very high opin-
ion of black people, but it was politic

138

Fantasy & Science Fiction

to keep up a good front. For all he
knew, his unwelcome companion
might be a cabinet minister.

Hastily he transferred his belong-
ings and pulled the door to exactly as
the train jarred into motion.

Having hung up his hat, coat, jacket
and tie, and stowed his glasses in
their pocket case, he extracted towel
and toilet bag from his suitcase and
made for the adjacent washroom. It
was not in the best of repair, but it
looked as though he had first call on
it; there were no water splashes on
the floor, and there was even a de-
cent supply of toilet paper. Just in
case it ran out, he tucked a few sheets
into his trouser pocket.

Refreshed, he returned to his com-
partment. To be on the safe side, he
opened and closed the door a couple
of times, finding that it moved as free-
ly as before. Sitting down with both
pillows behind him, he opened a pack
of Bogatyr brand papirosi, old-style
cigarettes with a built-in holder,
which he smoked in the traditional
manner, bending the cardboard tube
halfway along and holding it between
first and second fingers with his thumb
pushing the end upward like a minia-
ture pipe. Having lit the first, he took
three slow, relishing mouthfuls of the
brandy.

“Well, this is better, I must say?“
he muttered to the air as the alcohol-
ic warmth permeated his body. What
could that fool of a provodnitsa be
up to, claiming that the compartment

door was stuck? Was there perhaps
something in here that ought not to
be — something she was delivering
for a friend, or for a price; for exam
pie, goods that had eluded import
duty? If there were . . . !

The idea appealed to him, and he
made a cursory search, but there was
no sign of anything unusual.

He resumed his place, taking an-
other swig of brandy and lighting
another cigarette. More likely, come
to think of it, the compartment had
— past tense — held something illicit.
Everyone knew that despite the efforts
of the customs service, a certain
amount of smuggling took place be-
tween Leningrad and, especially, Fin-
nish ports, and the best prices were
to be obtained in Moscow. Suppose
the woman had pretended the door
was faulty on a previous, southbound
trip, and then had to maintain the
pretense when nobody turned up to
fit a new catch. Come to think of it
—he blinked and glanced around —
that wasn’t so surprising. This car-
riage was no longer worth repairing;
it was old stock, as was evidenced by
the shabby condition of the lavatory.
It, and those like it, were due to be
taken out of service anytime now and
dismissed to the scrapyard. Who
should know better than himself, in
charge of procurement and spares for
this whole sector of the railway?

The more he thought about it, and
the more brandy he put away, the
more convinced he became that his

The Fellow Traveler

139

inspired guess must be correct. Maybe
he should call for an official inquiry.
Fwo days ago the mere mention of
those words would have sent a shiver
of apprehension down his spine, for
he: himself had been in line to face
one, but that little problem had been
taken care of by his call on Vassilyev.
Obviously that latter had been hop-
ing that the last had been heard about
a recent, regrettable episode during,
as it so happened, a night journey on
this very train, particularly since the
other party involved was no longer in
a position to discuss the matter.
Therefore he had been greatly put
out by what Prokudin had to say.
However, he owed his visitor several
favors, and had perforce consented
to make sure that the inquiry — which
concerned certain spare parts that
were not as new as the accompanying
documents claimed, but had seen
service before and merely been re-
furbished — would concentrate its
attention on the lower levels of the
railway hierarchy. Two or three obli-
gatory scapegoats would be found,
but the reputation of Pavel Dmitro-
vich Prokudin would remain untar-
nished, as befitted a Party member of
nearly thirty years' standing.

Nonetheless, he could certainly
do with something more positive to
his credit, even if only as a diversion-
ary maneuver, and finding a ticketless
passenger concerned with the con-
cealment of illegal goods in a sup-
posedly inaccessible sleeping com-

partment. . . . Yes, something of that
kind would do very' nicely. And if a
silly, fat old woman got into trouble,
so what? It was no skin off his nose,
was it?

Shortly, however, all such thoughts
were driven away by others far more
enjoyable. What a good idea it had
been to make sure that the reserva-
tion lists relating to the night of Bo-
ris’s unfortunate escapade “got lost ”!
Naturally, as he had been at pains to
make clear in Moscow, at the time he
had been thinking solely in terms of
doing a good turn to an old pal who
risked getting into hot water. Of
course, the possibility had to be borne
in mind that they might just conceiv-
ably turn up again. . . .

But they wouldn’t. Not so long as
Boris kept his part of the bargain.

Chuckling at his own ingenuity,
Prokudin lit another cigarette and
swigged more brandy. After that the
bottle was only two-thirds full.

Lights had been flashing past the
window as the train rolled through
the city’s northern suburbs. By now,
however, it had entered open coun-
try, and there was nothing to be seen
but darkness. The snow that had lain
so long and deep during the winter
had completely melted. Spring was
definitely here at last. That, too,
should help to distract people from
thoughts of locomotives breaking
down at minus twenty degrees.

He rose, swaying a little — and
not only because of the train’s mo-

140

Fantasy & Science Fiction

tion — and drew the curtains tight.
He considered taking off his shoes
and trousers and getting under the
covers, but he wasn’t feeling cold.
Besides, there was still a lot of brandy
left. That had been a very welcome
surprise. Under the new dispensation
it was becoming harder and harder to
find. But Boris shared his fondness
for it and had generously passed on
part of the latest consignment he had
received from Tbilisi — unofficially.

By the time the level had reduced
to half, he was drowsy. Also he was
finding it hard to replace the stopper.
Treading out his last cigarette, he
drew the blanket over him and
switched off the light.

Within minutes, lulled by the slight
rocking of the train, Pavel Dmitro-
vich Prokudin was fast asleep.

w

I ith a start, he realized he could
no longer hear the rumble of the
wheels on the track. The train was at
a standstill. Moreover he was cold —
bitterly, numbingly cold.

He forced his eyes open. He was
still propped up on the two pillows,
so he was gazing straight at the win-
dow on the far side. To his astonish-
ment, it was daylight — or at any rate
it wasn’t night anymore. Under gleam-
ing steel-gray clouds, he saw white-
ness: the silhouettes of firs and birch
trees laden to the uttermost with
snow.

But where could this be? It ought

to be spring! It was spring! Anyway,
who could have opened the curtains?
Who had entered while he was as-
leep? Had he been robbed? He tried
to swing his feet to the floor and
stand up, but it was as though he
were paralyzed, or rather, unbelieva-
bly weak — as though the effort of
raising his eyelids had drained him of
his entire remaining strength. He
could not even reach for the brandy
bottle.

Summoning all his force, he willed
his head to turn, and managed to roll
it far enough to look toward the oth-
er bed.

There was someone in it. Under
not only a blanket, but a big, heavy
cloth coat. Lying perfectly still. Even
without his glasses, he could tell it
was a woman, for tresses of long, dark
hair trailed across her pillow.

Well, in that case—

He canceled the idea as soon as it
entered his mind. Just such a foolish
impulse was what had enabled him to
put the necessary pressure on Boris.
No! The important thing was, she had
no business being in his compart-
ment! Furious, he tried to shout at
her, tell her to get out —

He produced not a sound, not ev-
en a whisper, but as if reading his
thoughts, she moved. He saw her face
with incredible clarity; at any dis-
tance over half a meter, he normally
needed the help of his spectacles. She
was young, slender and pretty, but as
pale as the snow outside (how could

The Fellow Traveler

141

there be snow in such monstrous
quantities, as though it were still
February?), and her expression was
of indescribable despair.

Rising very stiffly, as though every
movement was as much of an effort
for her as for him, she leaned on the
doorframe and tugged at the handle.
The sliding panel did not budge. In a
sudden access of frustration, she be-
gan to hammer at it with small gloved
fists, and abruptly Prokudin realized
that her mouth was open. She looked
as though she was screaming for help.

And yet the silence was absolute.
He could not hear her cries; he had
not heard her blows on the wood.

At last, shivering, her face twisted
with sobs, she returned to the shelter
of the bed, and once again lay motion-
less.

‘‘Last trip for this lot, eh, Irina?*'
the provodnitsa said to her colleague
from the next carriage, who had come
in the small hours to share a snack of
tea, black bread, and sausage.

“Yes, Olga, and it*s about time.
The new ones are marvelous, aren’t
they? As modern as an airplane, if not
as fast.” Irina chuckled at her own
joke despite having made it a dozen
times before. She added in a more se-
rious tone, “I don’t suppose you’re
sorry to see the back of this old thing,
are you?’’

“Not after being snowed up in it!’’
Olga confirmed with emphasis. “The
breakdown wasn’t so bad — 1 mean.

it was the middle of February and the
worst winter for seven years, so one’s
resigned to that kind of thing occa-
sionally. But when the snowplow
broke down as well, and the drifts
were piling up nearly to the win-
dows, and the heating failed Even

the water heater had gone out. I can’t
tell you how glad we were when they
managed to clear the nearest road
and dig a path for us. The sound of
those trucks revving their engines —
oh, it was like the music of angels!
How lucky you were to be on leave!
And then, of course, after that it took
two days to free the train.’’

This, too, had been said a dozen
times, but Irina still nodded sympa-
thetically. And said after a pause, “Are
you still having trouble with the door
of that compartment?’’

Olga sighed, sipping her tea. “I
gave up on it,’’ she said. “I told you 1
put in a fault report, but nobody took
any notice ~ and why should they?
Why repair something that’s only a
few weeks away from being junked?
And it’s not my business to fix that
kind of thing, is it? I followed the
proper procedure; and if nobody paid
attention, it isn’t up to me to carry
the can. I had quite a row with the
chief courier of this African trade
delegation, you know.’’

“Yes, I noticed. What happened?’’

“Well, they’d booked two of the
Intourist people in the end compart-
ment, in spite of my having reported
the jammed door. They had to be

142

Fantasy & Science Fiction

moved from soft to hard because
there wasn’t room anywhere else. He
went on at me as though I were to
blame, but 1 had my copy of the fault
report, and I stood my ground. He
had to give up eventually, of course,
or be held responsible for delaying
the train.”

Irina tsk-tsked and refilled the tea-
cups. She said after a pause, “Every
time 1 think of that poor girl. . . .”

“How do you suppose 1 feel? I’m
lucky to have kept my job, aren’t I?
But 1 pointed out that it was none of
my doing if she chose to use a name
like Sasha that could just as well be a
man’s, and what’s more, with a for-
eign surname that doesn’t have a
proper feminine ending! Why didn’t
she call herself Alexandra, in full, so
there wouldn’t have been any
mix-up?”

“Quite right,” Irina concurred.
“What’s more, she should have mar-
ried a nice Russian boy instead of —
what did they say her husband was?
Swedish? Finnish?”

“One or the other,” Olga said
dismissively. “Still, you can’t help
feeling sorry for him, can you?”

“No, I suppose not. They hadn’t
even had a chance to live together
since they got married, had they?
You’re right: it must have been dread-
ful for him.”

“He wasn’t the only one,” Olga
said tartly, picking up the thread of
her discourse. “She should have com-
plained to me! / know what men are

like! I’d have sorted the nasty fellow
out, no matter who he was! But I
suppose she was too scared of being
held up by some sort of police pro-
ceedings. So when she found the end
compartment was vacant, she just
moved in without reporting what
she’d done. Oh, she brought trouble
on her own head. My list didn’t show
anyone in that compartment — why
should it occur to me to check it
when all the ones I knew to be occu-
pied were definitely empty? I mean,
you rely on normal procedure even
when you’re stuck in a snowdrift wait-
ing for rescue! And I did my duty! I
was the last to leave the carriage, like
a captain leaving his ship! Far as I
knew, anyway!”

“Or course! But how she managed
to sleep through all the commotion,
that’s what I’d like to know. They said
they didn’t find any sedative or sleep-
ing pills.”

“Ah, that did come out. I thought
I’d already told you. She told a friend
she could never sleep on a train, so
this other girl gave her some tablets
she’d been prescribed, just wrapped
in a bit of paper. She got an almighty
ticking-off, by the way! She had no
business passing on any sort of medi-
cine without a doctor’s advice. And it
was strong stuff, too, quite enough to
knock out a little slip of a thing like
that for twice as long as she ex-
pected.”

“How awful it must have been
for her when she woke up at twenty

The FcNow Traveler

143

below zero, and found the train was
empty!”

‘‘Yes. . . . Well, let’s not think
about it. It’s over, and it can’t be
helped. But I can’t avoid saying, you
know, how much I’d like to get my
hands on whoever was responsible
for first the engine breaking down,
and then the snowplow. And it was
just a small part in each case — the
sort of thing you’d never imagine
could bring a whole huge machine to
a dead stop.”

‘‘For all anyone can tell,” said Iri-
na sagely, “it could have been the
same person who sent us those door
catches that jam so easily. You know,
when I was learning English, they
taught us a saying about ‘spoiling the
ship for a kopeck’s worth of tar.’
Things never change, not really. . . .
Well, time’s a-wasting. I’ll see you at
the terminus.”

And she went back to her own
carriage, leaving Olga to brood anew
over the tragedy.

he train was rolling again. With a
start of relief, Prokudin jolted awake.
His mouth was dry, his belly sour, and
he had a splitting headache. But the
terrible paralysis had left him. So it
had only been a nightmare after all!

What a nightmare, though! He had
never had a worse one!

With trembling fingers, he opened
the brandy and took a gulp. As he was
replacing the stopper, it dawned on

him that the train was — yes — mov-
ing, but it was moving in the wrong
direction.

Backward.

Fumbling for his glasses, he rushed
to the window and dragged the cur-
tains apart. There was morning mist
outside, but thinning — and at least
there was no sign of snow.

The view that met his gaze was
familiar: sheds and workshops along-
side one of the tracks running south
from the Leningrad terminus. He
cursed roundly. What had happened
was instantly obvious: the stupid bitch
of a provodnitsa hadn’t bothered to
wake him on arrival, and this carriage
was being shunted to a siding. He
could clearly hear the familiar racket
of a shunting engine, so different
from a long-haul locomotive.

That settled it! He was going to
report her, whether or not she really
was using a compartment with a sup-
posedly jam(ned door to convey illic-
it goods. It was no more than she
deserved!

The fact that according to her
passenger list, this compartment was
supposed to be empty, so there would
have been no point in banging at the
door to rouse its occupants, made in
his view absolutely no difference. It
was a disgraceful way to treat a sen-
ior railway official!

Worst of all: news of this mishap
was bound to leak out, and he could
just imagine how it would delight his
colleagues — among whom he was

144

Fantasy & Science Fiction

not entirely popular, what with his
car, his larger-than-average apartment,
his dacha, and his access to the Beri-
ozka hard-currenc>' shops, the fruit of
years of such ingenious shifts as that
little matter of entering recycled spare
parts as though they were brand-new.

And to think that yesterday he had
been in such high spirits!

He dragged on his jacket, coat,
and hat, shut his suitcase, and reached
for the handle of the door.

It was stuck.

He tugged until his arms ached.
Then he battered on the wood and
shouted at the top of his voice. Cur-
iously, he seemed not to be making
the proper amount of noise. The im-
pact of his banging was faint, as though
muffled by distance; so, incredibly,
was the sound of his own voice.

Bewildered, he strode to the win-
dow. But by this time the carriage
had reached its next-to-final destina-
tion. It stood alongside another, iden-
tical to it, completely empty. He could
clearly make out that the beds had
been stripped.

Furious, he sank down on his own
bed again. Well, sooner or later some-
one would come down this carriage,
too, collecting sheets and blankets
and pillows. When they did, he wasn’t
half going to give them a piece of his
mind!

For want of anything else — some-
how he had smoked his entire packet
of papirosi — he drank some more

brandy, mentally rehearsing the
tongue-lashing he was going to ad-
minister when he caught up with that
provodnitsa.

At last he heard footsteps coming
along the corridor, accompanied by
cheerful female voices. He resumed
his hammering on the door, and
shouted as loudly as he could.

His fists made no more noise than
if they had been striking a cushion,
and his shouts were softer than a waft
of summer breeze.

One of the women tried the com-
partment door, and his heart leapt
with excitement. But it failed to op-
en, and someone called, “Don’t bother
with the end one! The catch is jammed
■— the provodnitsa left a note about
it stuck to the door of her office.’’

“Right! ”

And they were gone.

Incredulous, more than a little
frightened, Prokudin looked at his
brandy bottle. There was still quite a
lot left in it — but all of sudden he
was crazy with impatience, and any-
way he had another bottle. If he
couldn’t get out by the door, there
was always the window!

He spun around and hurled the
boule at the largest pane. The bottle
smashed. The window stayed intact.

But through it, all of a sudden, he
seemed to see once more that bleak
midwinter landscape, this time partly
obscured by a snowdrift that had ris-
en halfway up the glass. He seemed to
be gripped by the same biting chill; he

The Fellow Traveler

145

sensed, rather than saw, another pres-
ence here in the compartment, and
knew tht his fellow traveler was see-
ing, feeling, suffering the same: the
cold, the fear, the dawning certainty
of being trapped. . . .

Abruptly he realized whose that
presence was.

Terrified, he seized the remaining
bottle and drank from it as though it
held plain water.

EAj week elapsed before the car-
riage made its last journey of all, to
the scrapyard where it was to be
broken up. Ahead of the team with
cutting torches who came to attack
its metal frame went husky young
men with screwdrivers, spanners,
hammers, and crowbars, reclaiming
everything that might be reusable by
somebody: coat hooks, lamps and
bulbs, wooden paneling, hinges, cur-
tain rods. . . .

Reaching the last compartment, a
nineteen-year-old boy called Igor dis-
covered that the door was stuck. He
took a crowbar to it. When the catch
gave way, he found a swarm of buz-
zing flies, and also . . . what they were
feeding on.

“Comrade foreman!” he called in
a weak voice, as soon as he had mas-
tered the urge to bring up his break-
fast.

“What is it?” the foreman said
with a sigh, putting by his list of items
to be reclaimed. And then: “Oh!”

He crossed himself by sheer re-
flex; then, recovering, went in.

“I saw worse than this when 1 was
younger than you, during the Great
Patriotic War!” he muttered. “Had
quite a party here, didn't he — all by
himself?” His heavy boots were
crunching broken glass. “Looks as if
he’d already finished one bottle be-
fore he got started on the second” —
which lay empty in half-rotted hands.

“Let’s find out who he was,” he
went on, pulling back the coat and
jacket and searching for an inside
pocket. He retrieved a wallet, slimy
with corruption; he wiped it fasti-
diously on the coat’s lapels before
opening it.

And then he murmured, “Hmm!
So that’s what became of the dirty
bastard! Everyone’s been saying that
he must have fled abroad so as not to
have to face the music.”

Igor, in the doorway, ventured,
“You know who he is — I mean,
was?”

The answer came in an impressive
tone: “Pavel Dmitrovich Prokudin!”

Igor looked blank.

“Hah!” — with contempt. “It’s
plain you haven’t been in your trade
long! I thought everybody knew about
Prokudin! He specialized in the sort
of thing you’re doing right now, ex-
cept he wasn’t doing it honestly and
aboveboard.”

“What do you mean?” Igor had so
far recovered his self-possession as to
advance a pace or two, his horrified

146

Fantasy & Science Fiction

but fascinated gaze fixed on the
corpse’s bloated, decaying face. Flies
had found the eyes and nostrils, and
the open mouth, especially attractive.

“He fixed the paperwork to make
it look as though used parts had been
delivered new from the factory. I
don’t suppose that was the only trick
he got up to, but it was probably the
one that got him all sorts of things he
didn’t deserve.’’

Realization dawned.

“Oh! Was he the guy they said was
likely to be investigated?”

“That’s right.”

“Because he was being — well,
blatant?”

“Oh, not just that” — with a dis-
missive gesture. “Remember the time
the Krasnaya Strela got stuck because

the loco broke down, and then the
snowplow broke down as well while
it was clearing the way for a replace-
ment engine? Fine state of affairs!
One of our crack trains stranded in
the middle of nowhere! Heads were
bound to roll for letting that happen!”

Igor bridled a little. “Of course I
remember! That was only two or three
months ago. And didn’t someone get
left behind when they had to evacu-
ate the passengers by bus?”

“Bus?” The foreman gave a sour
grin. “They couldn’t get buses through
to it. They had to call out army trucks.
But — yes, that was the worst part of
the scandal hanging over this son of a
bitch. Some girl or other who’d mar-
ried a Finn had finally got permission
to join him, and she was on her way,

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The Fellow Traveler

147

only she'd taken a sedative, and slept
right through the clearance of the
train.”

‘‘You mean nobody knew she was
on board?” Igor burst out.

‘‘The way I heard it, she moved her-
self into an empty compartment be-
cause by mistake she’d been put in
with a man. Presumably he was making
a nuisance of himself, only she didn’t
dare file a complaint for fear of being
kept away from her husband even long-
er. Beside, rumor has it that the guy in
question was a crony of Prokudin’s.
But I don’t know for sure. Who does?
You don’t read authoritative accounts
of this kind of thing in Trud, do you?
What I do know is the reason for the
two breakdowns; I had it straight from

a pal of mine in locomotive mainte-
nance. Both the engine and the snow-
plow had been fitted with used parts
that Prokudin told the inventory clerks
to list as new ones.”

Igor looked properly shocked.

‘‘How on earth did he get away
with it?”

‘‘When you’ve spent thirty years
cultivating friends in high places, and
maybe sometimes keeping quiet about
matters they would rather not have
noised abroad, you can get away with
quite a lot, or so I’m told. At all
events,” the foreman concluded, “he
finally seems to have got his comup-
pance. I wonder how. . . . Never
mind. We’d better go and phone for
the militsiyay

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148

Fantasy & Science Fiction

Nancy Springer wrote Amends: A Tale of the Sun Kings** May
1983) Her new story is a compelling fantasy about a stable boy,
an eerie, silent boy who made not a sound until one day when
he spoke a few words, and the terror began . . .

The Box; Who
Plaited Manes

BY

NANCY SPRINGER

T

■ he boy who plaited the manes
of horses came, fittingly enough, on
the day of the Midsummer Hunt: when
he was needed worst, though Wald
the head groom did not yet know it.
The stable was in a muted frenzy of
work, as it had been since long be-
fore dawn, every groom and appren-
tice vehemently polishing. The lord’s
behest was that all the horses in his
stable should be brushed for two
hours every morning to keep the fine
shine and bloom on their flanks, and
this morning could be no different.
Then there was also all the gear to be
tended to. Though old Lord Robley of
Auberon was a petty manor lord, with
only some hundred of horses and less
than half the number of grooms to
show for a lifetime’s striving, his low-
ly status made him all the more keen
to present himself and his retinue
grandly before the more powerful

The Boy Who Plaited Manes

lords who would assemble for the
Hunt. Himself and his retinue and his
lovely young wife.

Therefore it was an eerie thing
when the boy walked up the long
stable aisle past men possessed with
work, men so frantic they took no no-
tice at all of the stranger, up the aisle
brick-paved in chevron style until he
came to the stall where the lady’s
milk-white palfrey stood covered
withers to croup with a fitted sheet
tied on to keep the beast clean, and
the boy swung open the heavy stall
door and walked in without fear, as if
he belonged there, and went up to
the palfrey to plait its mane.

He was an eerie boy, so thin that
he seemed deformed, and of an age
difficult to guess because of his thin-
ness. He might have been ten, or
he might have been seventeen with
something wrong about him that

149

made him beardless and narrow-
shouldered and thin. His eyes seemed
too gathered for a ten-year-old, gray-
green and calm yet feral, like wood-
land. His hair, dark and shaggy,
seemed to bulk large above his thin,
thin face.

The palfrey’s hair was far better
cared for than his. Its silky mane,
coddled for length, hung down bel-
ow its curved neck, and its tail was
bundled into a wrapping, to be let
down at the last moment before the
lady rose, when it would trail on the
ground and float like a white bridal
train. The boy did not yet touch the
tail, but his thin fingers flew to work
on the palfrey’s mane.

Wald the head groom, passing
nearly at a run to see to the saddling
of the lord’s hotblooded hunter, stop-
ped in his tracks and stared. And to
be sure it was not that he had never
seen plaiting before. He himself had
probably braided a thousand horses’
manes, and he knew what a time it
took to put even a row of small
looped braids along a horse’s crest,
and how hard it was to get them
even, and how horsehair seems like a
demon with a mind of its own. He
frankly gawked, and other grooms
stood beside him and did likewise,
until more onlookers stood gathered
outside the palfrey’s stall than could
rightly see, and those in the back de-
manded to know what was happen-
ing, and those in the front seemed
not to hear them, but stood as if in a

trance, watching the boy’s thin, swift
hands.

For the boy’s fingers moved more
quickly and deftly than seemed hu-
man, than seemed possible, each hand
by itself combing and plaiting a long,
slender braid in one smooth move-
ment, as if he no more than stroked
the braid out of the mane. That itself
would have been wonder enough, as
when a groom is so apt that he can
curry with one hand and follow after
with the brush in the other, and have
a horse done in half the time. A shin-
ing braid forming out of each hand
every minute, wonder enough — but
that was the least of it. The boy in-
terwove them as he worked, so that
they flowed into each other in a net-
work, making of the mane a delicate
shawl, a veil, that draped the palfrey’s
fine neck. The ends of the braids
formed a silky hem curving down to a
point at the shoulder, and at the
point the boy spiraled the remaining
mane into an uncanny horsehair flow-
er. And all the time, though it was not
tied and was by no means a cold-
blooded beast, the palfrey had not
moved, standing still as stone.

Then Wald the head groom felt
fear prickling at the back of his aston-
ishment. The boy had carried each
plait down to the last three hairs. Yet
he had fastened nothing with thread
or ribbon, but merely pressed the
ends between two fingers, and the
braids stayed as he had placed them.
Nor did the braids ever seem to fall

ISO

Fantasy & Science Fiction

loose as he was working, or hairs fly
out at random, but all lay smooth as
white silk, shimmering. The boy, or
whatever he was, stood still with his
hands at his sides, admiring his work.

Uncanny. Still, the lord and lady
would be well pleased. . . . Wald
jerked himself out of amazement and
moved quickly. “Get back to your
work, you fellows!” he roared at the
grooms, and then he strode into the
stall.

“Who are you?” he demanded.
“What do you mean coming in here
like this?” It was best, in a lord’s
household, never to let anyone know
you were obliged to them.

The boy looked at him silently,
turning his head in the alert yet indif-
ferent way of a cat.

“I have asked you a question! What
is your name?”

The boy did not speak, or even
move his lips. Then or thereafter, as
long as he worked in that stable, he
never made any sound.

His stolid manner annoyed Wald.
But though the master groom could
not yet know that the boy was a mute,
he saw something odd in his face. A
halfwit, perhaps. He wanted to strike
the boy, but even worse he wanted
the praise of the lord and lady, so he
turned abruptly and snatched the
wrapping off the palfrey’s tail, letting
the cloud of white hair float down to
the clean straw of the stall. “Do some-
thing with that,” he snapped.

A sweet, intense glow came into

the boy’s eyes as he regarded his task.
With his fingers he combed the hair
smooth, and then he started a row of
small braids above the bone.

Most of the tail he left loose and
flowing, with just a cluster of braids
at the top, a few of them swinging
halfway to the ground. And young
Lady Aelynn gasped with pleasure
when she saw them, and with won-
der at the mane, even though she was
a lord’s daughter bom and not unac-
customed to finery.

It did not mattef, that day, that
Lord Robley’s saddle had not been
polished to a sufficient shine. He was
well pleased with his grooms. Nor
did it matter that his hawks flew
poorly, his hounds were unruly and
his clumsy hunter stumbled and cut
its knees. Lords and ladies looked
again and again at his young wife on
her white palfrey, its tail trailing and
shimmering like her blue silk gown,
the delicate openwork of its mane as
dainty as the lace kerchief tucked be-
tween her breasts or her slender
gloved hand that held the caparis-
oned reins. Every hair of her mount
was as artfully placed as her own
honey-gold hair looped in gold-
beaded curls atop her fair young head.
Lord Robley knew himself to be the
envy of everyone who saw him for the
sake of his lovely wife and the show-
ing she made on her white mount
with the plaited mane.

And when the boy who plaited
manes took his place among the lord’s

The Boy Who Plaited Manes

151

other servants in the kitchen line for
the evening meal, no one gainsaid
him.

Lord Robley was a hard old man,
his old body hard and hale, his spirit
hard. It took him less than a day to
pass from being well pleased to being
greedy for more: no longer was it
enough that the lady’s palfrey should
go forth in unadorned braids. He sent
a servant to Wald with silk ribbons in
the Auberon colors, dark blue and
crimson, and commanded that they
should be plaited into the palfrey’s
mane and tail. This the stranger boy
did with ease when Wald ordered
him to, and he used the ribbon ends
to tie tiny bows and love knots and
leave a few shimmering tendrils bob-
bing in the forelock. Lady Aelynn was
enchanted.

Within a few days Lord Robley
had sent to the stable thread of silver
and of gold, strings of small pearls,
tassels, pendant jewels, and fresh-cut
flowers of every sort. All of these
things the boy who plaited manes
used with ease to dress the lady’s pal-
frey when he was bid. Lady Aelynn
went forth to the next hunt with tiny
bells, of silver and gold chiming at the
tip of each of her mount’s dainty
ribbon-decked braids, and eyes turned
her way wherever she rode. Nor did
the boy ever seem to arrange the
mane and tail and forelock twice in
the same way, but whatever way he
chose to plait and weave and dress it

seemed the most perfect and poig-
nant and heartachingly beautiful way
a horse had ever been arrayed. Once
he did the palfrey’s entire mane in
one great, thick braid along the crest,
gathering in the hairs as he went,
so that the neck seemed to arch as
mightily as a destrier’s, and he made
the braid drip thick with flowers,
roses and great lilies and spires of
larkspur trailing down, so that the
horse seemed to go with a mane of
flowers. But another time he would
leave the mane loose and floating,
with just a few braids shimmering
down behind the ears or in the fore-
lock, perhaps, and this also seemed
perfect and poignant and the only
way a horse should be adorned.

Nor was it sufficient, any longer,
that merely the lady’s milk-white pal-
frey should go forth in braids. Lord
Robley commanded that his hot-
blooded hunter also should have his
mane done up in stubby ribboned
braids and rosettes in the Auberon
colors, and the horses of his retinue
likewise, though with lesser rosettes.
And should his wife choose to go out
riding with her noble guests, all their
mounts were to be prepared like
hers, though in lesser degree.

All these orders Wald passed on
to the boy who plaited manes, and
the youngster readily did as he was
bid, working sometimes from before
dawn until long after dark, and never
seeming to want more than what
food he could eat while standing in

152

Fantasy & Science Fiction

the kitchen. He slept in the hay and
straw of the loft and did not use even
a horseblanket for covering until one
of the grooms threw one on him. Nor
did he ask for clothing, but Wald,
ashamed of the boy’s shabbiness, pro-
vided him with the clothing due to a
servant. The master groom said noth-
ing to him of a servant’s pay. The boy
seemed content without it. Prob-
ably he would have been content
without the clothing as well. Though
in fact it was hard to tell what he was
thinking or feeling, for he never spoke
and his thin face seldom moved.

No one knew his name, the boy
who plaited manes. Though many of
the grooms were curious and made
inquiries, no one could tell who he
was or where he had come from. Or
even what he was, Wald thought sour-
ly. No way to tell if the young snip
was a halfwit or a bastard or what, if
he would not talk. No way to tell
what sort of a young warlock he
might be, that the horses never moved
under his hands, even the hotblooded
hunter standing like a stump for him.
Scrawny brat. He could hear well
enough; why would he not talk?

It did not make Wald like the
strange boy, that he did at once what-
ever he was told and worked so hard
and so silently. In particular he did
not like the boy for doing the work
for which Wald reaped the lord’s
praise; Wald disliked anyone to whom
he was obliged. Nor did he like the
way the boy had arrived, as if blown

in on a gust of wind, and so thin that
it nearly seemed possible. Nor did he
like the thought that any day the boy
might leave in like wise. And even
disliking that thought, Wald could
not bring himself to give the boy the
few coppers a week which were his
due, for he disliked the boy more.
Wald believed there was something
wrongheaded, nearly evil, about the
boy. His face seemed wrong, so very
thin, with the set mouth and the eyes
both wild and quiet, burning like a
steady candle flame.

Summer turned into autumn, and
many gusts of wind blew, but the boy
who plaited manes seemed content
to stay, and if he knew of Wald’s dis-
like he did not show it. In fact he
showed nothing. He braided the pal-
frey’s mane with autumn starflowers
and smiled ever so slightly as he
worked. Autumn turned to the first
dripping and dismal, chill days
of winter. The boy used bunches of
bright feathers instead of flowers
when he dressed the palfrey’s mane,
and he did not ask for a winter jerkin,
so Wald did not give him any. It was
seldom enough, anyway, that the
horses were used for pleasure at this
season. The thin boy could spend his
days huddled under a horseblanket in
the loft.

Hard winter came, and the small-
pox season.

Lady Aelynn was bored in the win-
tertime, even more so than during
the rest of the year. At least in the

The Boy Who Plaited Manes

153

fine weather there were walks out-
side, there were riding and hunting
and people to impress. It would not
be reasonable for a lord’s wife, nobly
born (though a younger child, and
female), to wish for more than that.
Lady Aelynn knew full well that her
brief days of friendships and court-
ships were over. She had wed tolera-
bly well, and Lord Robley counted
her among his possessions, a beauti-
ful thing to be prized like his gold
and his best horses. He was a manor
lord, and she was his belonging, his
lady, and not for others to touch even
with their regard. She was entirely
his. So there were walks for her in
walled gardens, and pleasure riding
and hunting by her lord’s side, and
people to impress.

But in the wintertime there were
not even the walks. There was noth-
ing for the Lady Aelynn to do but
tend to her needlework and her own
beauty, endlessly concerned with her
clothes, her hair, her skin, even
though she was so young, no more
than seventeen — for she knew in her
heart that it was for her beauty that
Lord Robley smiled on her, and for
no other reason. And though she did
not think of it, she knew that her life
lay in his grasping hands.

Therefore she was ardently un-
easy, and distressed only for herself,
when the woman who arranged her
hair each morning was laid abed with
smallpox. Though as befits a lady of
rank, Aelynn hid her dismay in vexa-

tion. And it did not take her long to
discover that none of her other tiring-
women could serve her nearly as
well.

“Mother of God!’’ she raged, sur-
veying her hair in the mirror for per-
haps the tenth time. “The groom who
plaits the horses’ manes in the stable
could do better!’’ Then the truth of
her own words struck her, and des-
peration made her willing to be dar-
ing. She smiled. “Bring him hither!’’

Her women stammered and curt-
seyed and fled to consult among
themselves and exclaim with the help
in the kitchen. After some few min-
utes of this, a bold kitchen maid was
dispatched to the stable and returned
with a shivering waif: the boy who
plaited manes.

It was not to be considered that
such a beggar should go in to the
lady. Her tiring-women squeaked in
horror and made him bathe first, in a
washbasin before the kitchen hearth,
for there was a strong smell of horse
and stable about him. They ordered
him to scrub his own hair with strong
soap and scent himself with lavender,
and while some of them giggled and
fled, others giggled and stayed, to
pour water for him and see that he
made a proper job of his ablutions.
All that was demanded of him the boy
who plaited manes did without any
change in his thin face, any move-
ment of his closed mouth, any flash of
his feral eyes. At last they brought
him clean clothing, jerkin and woolen

154

Fantasy & Science Fiction

hose only a little too large, and pulled
the things as straight as they could on
him, and took him to the tower where
the lady waited.

He did not bow to the Lady Aelynn
or look into her eyes for his instruc-
tions, but his still mouth softened a
little and his glance, calm and alert,
like that of a woodland thing, darted
to her hair. And at once, as if he could
scarcely wait, he took his place be-
hind her and lifted her tresses in his
hands. Such a soft, fine, honey-
colored mane of hair as he had never
seen, and combs of gold and ivory ly-
ing at hand on a rosewood table, and
ribbons of silk and gold, everything
he could have wanted, his for the
sake of his skill.

He started at the forehead, and
the lady sat as if ih^ trance beneath
the deft touch of his hands.

Gentle, he was so gentle, she had
never felt such a soft and gentle touch
from any man, least of all from her
lord. When Lord Robley wanted to
use one of his possessions he seized
it, not so hard as to hurt, but still
firmly enough to take control. But
this boy touched her as gently as a
woman, no, a mother, for no tiring-
woman or maid had ever gentled her
so. . . . Yet unmistakably his was the
touch of a man, though she could
scarcely have told how she knew.
Part of it was power, she could feel
the gentle power in his touch, she
could feel — uncanny, altogether
eerie and uncanny, what she was feel-

ing. It was as if his quick fingers
called to her hair in soft command
and her hair obeyed just for the sake
of the one quick touch, all the while
longing to embrace. . . . She stayed
breathlessly still for him, like the
horses.

He plaited her hair in braids thin
as bluebell stems, only a wisp of hairs
to each braid, one after another with
both his deft hands as if each was as
easy as a caress, making them stay
with merely a touch of two fingers at
the end, until all her hair lay in a silky
cascade of them, catching the light
and glimmering and swaying like a
rich drapery when he made her move
her head. Some of them he gathered
and looped and tied up with the rib-
bons which matched her dress, blue
edged with gold. But most of them he
left hanging to her bare back and
shoulders. He surveyed his work with
just a whisper of a smile when he was
done, then turned and left without
waiting for the lady’s nod, and she sat
as if under a spell and watched his
thin back as he walked away. Then
she tossed her head at his lack of
courtesy. But the swinging of her hair
pleased her.

She had him back to dress her hair
the next day, and the next, and many
days thereafter. And so that they
would not have to be always bathing
him, her tiring-women found him a
room within the manorhouse doors,
and a pallet and clean blankets, and a
change of clothing, plain coarse cloth-

Ttie Boy Who PlaHed Manes

155

ing, such a servants wore. They trim-
med the heavy hair that shadowed his
eyes, also, but he looked no less the
oddling with his thin, thin face and
his calm burning glance and his mouth
that seemed scarcely ever to move.
He did as he was bid, whether by
Wald or the lady or some kitchen
maid, and every day he plaited Lady
Aelynn’s hair differently. One day he
shaped it all into a bright crown of
braids atop her head. On other days
he would plait it close to her head so
that the tendrils caressed her neck,
or in a haughty crest studded with
jewels, or in a single soft feathered
braid at one side. He always left her
tower chamber at once, never look-
ing at the lady to see if he had pleased
her, as if he knew that she would al-
ways be pleased.

Always, she was.

Things happened. The tiring-
woman who had taken smallpox died
of it, and Lady Aelynn did not care,
not for the sake of her cherished hair
and most certainly not for the sake of
the woman herself. Lord Robley went
away on a journey to discipline a debt-
or vassal, and Lady Aelynn did not
care except to be glad, for there was
a sure sense growing in her of what
she would do.

When even her very tresses were
enthralled by the touch of this odd-
ling boy, longing to embrace him,
could st)e be otherwise?

When next he had plaited her
mane of honey-colored hair and

turned to leave her without a glance,
she caught him by one thin arm. His
eyes met hers with a steady, gathered
look. She stood — she was taller than
he, and larger, though she was as
slender as any maiden. It did not mat-
ter. She took him by one thin hand
and led him to her bed, and there he
did as he was bid.

Nor did he disappoint her. His
touch — she had never been touched
so softly, so gently, so deftly, with
such power. Nor was he lacking in
manhood, for all that he was as thin
and hairless as a boy. And his lips, af-
ter all, knew how to move, and his
tongue. But it was the touch of his
thin hands that she hungered for, the
gentle, tender, potent touch that
thrilled her almost as if — she were
loved. . . .

He smiled at her afterward, slight-
ly, softly, a whisper of a smile in the
muted half-light of her curtained bed,
and his lips moved.

“You are swine,” he said, “all of
you nobles.”

And he got up, put on his plain,
coarse clothing and left her without a
backward glance.

It terrified Lady Aelynn, that he
was not truly a mute. Terrified her
even more than what he had said,
though she burned with mortified
wrath whenever she thought of the
latter. He, of all people, a mute, to
speak such words to her and leave
her helpless to avenge herself. . . .

156

Fantasy & Science Fiction

Perhaps for that reason he would not
betray her. She had thought it would

be safe to take a mute as her lover

Perhaps he would not betray her.

In fact, it was not he who be-
trayed her to her lord, but Wald.

Her tiring-women suspected, per-
haps because she had sent them on
such a long errand. She had not
thought they would suspect — who
would think that such a wisp of a
beardless boy could be a bedfellow?
But perhaps they also had seen the
wild glow deep in his gray-green eyes.
They whispered among themselves
and with the kitchen maids, and the
bold kitchen maid giggled with the
grooms, and Wald heard.

Even though the boy who plaited
manes did it all, Wald considered the
constant plaiting and adorning of
manes and tails a great bother. The
whole fiissy business offended him,
he had decided, and he had long
since forgotten the few words of
praise it had garnered from the lord
at first. Moreover, he disliked the boy
so vehemently that he was not think-
ing clearly. It seemed to him that he
could be rid of the boy and the
wretched onus of braids and rosettes
all in one stroke. The day the lord
returned from his journey, Wald hur-
ried to him, begged private audience,
bowed low and made his humble
report.

Lord Robley heard him in icy si-
lence, for he knew pettiness when he
saw it; it had served him often in the

past, and he would punish it if it
misled him. He summoned his wife to
question her. But the Lady Aelynn’s
hair hung lank, and her guilt and
shame could be seen plainly in her
face from the moment she came be-
fore him.

Lord Robley’s roar could be heard
even to the stables.

He strode over to her where she
lay crumpled and weeping on his
chamber floor, lifted her head by its
honey-gold hair and slashed her across
the face with his sword. Then he left
her screaming and stinging her wound
with fresh tears, and he strode to the
stable with his bloody sword still
drawn, Wald fleeing before him all
the way; when the lord burst in all
the grooms were scattered but one.
The boy Wald had accused stood
plaiting the white palfrey’s mane.

Lord Robley hacked the palfrey’s
head from its braid-bedecked neck
with his sword, and the boy who
plaited manes stood by with some-
thing smoldering deep in his unblink-
ing gray-green eyes, stood calmly
waiting. If he had screamed and
turned to flee. Lord Robley would
with great satisfaction have given him
a coward’s death from the back. But
it unnerved the lord that the boy
awaited his pleasure with such mute
—what? Defiance? There was no ser-
vant’s boy in this one, no falling to
the soiled straw, no groveling. If he
had groveled he could have been
kicked, stabbed, killed out of hand.

The Boy Who PlaHed Manes

157

also But this silent, watchful wait-

ing, like the alertness of a wild thing
—on the hunt or being hunted? It
gave Lord Robley pause, like the pause
of the wolf before the standing stag
or the pause of the huntsman before
the thicketed boar. He held the boy
at the point of his sword — though
no such holding was necessary, for
the prisoner had not moved even to
tremble — and roared for his men-at-
arms to come take the boy to the
dungeon.

There the nameless stranger stayed
without water or food, and aside from
starving him Lord Robley could not
decide what to do with him.

At first the boy who plaited manes
paced in his prison restlessly — he
had that freedom, for he was so thin
and small that the shackles were too
large to hold him. Later he lay in a
scant bed of short straw and stared
narrow-eyed at the darkness. And yet
later, seeing the thin cascades of
moonlight flow down through the
high, iron-barred window and puddle
in moon-glades on the stone floor, he
got up and began to plait the moon-
beams.

They were far finer than any horse-
hair, moonbeams, finer even than the
lady’s honey-colored locks, and his
eyes grew wide with wonder and
pleasure as he felt them. He made
them into braids as fine as silk threads,
flowing together into a lacework as
close as woven cloth, and when he
had reached as high as he could,

plaiting, he stroked as if combing a
long mane with his fingers and pulled
more moonlight down out of sky—
for this stuff was not like any other
stuff he had even worked with, it
slipped and slid worse than any hair,
there seemed to be no beginning or
end to it except the barriers that men
put in its way. He stood plaiting the
fine, thin plaits until he had raised a
shimmering heap on the floor, and
then he stepped back and allowed
the moon to move on. His handiwork
he laid carefully aside in a comer.

The boy who plaited moonbeams
did not sleep, but sat watching for
the dawn, his eyes glowing greenly in
the darkened cell. He saw the sky
lighten beyond the high window and
waited stolidly, as the wolf waits for
the gathering of the pack, as a wildcat
waits for the game to pass along the
trail below the rock where it lies. Not
until the day had neared its mid did
the sun’s rays, thrust through the nar-
row spaces between the high bars,
wheel their shafts down to where he
could reach them. Then he got up
and began to plait the sunlight.

Guards were about, or more alert,
in the daytime, and they gathered at
the heavy door of his prison, peering
in between the iron bars of its small
window, gawking and quarreling with
each other for turns. They watched
his unwavering eyes, saw the slight
smile come on his face as he worked,
though his thin hands glowed red as
if seen through fire. They saw the

158

Fantasy & Science Fiction

shining mound he raised on the floor,
and whispered among themselves and
did not know what to do, for none of
them dared to touch it or him. One of
them requested a captain to come
look. And the captain summoned the
steward, and the steward went to re-
port to the lord. And from outside
the cries began to sound that the sun
was standing still.

After the boy had finished, he
stood back and let the sun move on,
then sat resting on his filthy straw.
Within minutes the dungeon door
burst open and Lord Robley himself
strode in.

Lord Robley had grown weary of
mutilating his wife, and he had not
yet decided what to do with his other
prisoner. Annoyed by the reports from
the prison, he expected that an idea
would come to him when he saw the
boy. He entered with drawn sword.
But all thoughts of the thin young
body before him were sent whirling
away from his mind by what he saw
laid out on the stone floor at his feet.

A mantle, a kingly cloak — but no
king had ever owned such a cloak. All
shining, the outside of it silver and
the inside gold — but no, to call it
silver and gold was to insult it. More
like water and fire, flow and flame,
shimmering as if it moved, as if it
were alive, and yet it had been made
by hands, he could see the workman-
ship, so fine that every thread was
worth a gasp of pleasure, the outside
of it somehow braided and plaited to

the lining, and all around the edge a
fringe of threads like bright fur so
fine that it wavered in the air like
flame. Lord Robley had no thought
but to settle the fiery gleaming thing
on his shoulders, to wear that glory
and be finer than any king. He seized
it and flung it on—

And screamed as he had not yet
made his wife scream, with the shriek
of mortal agony. His whole hard body
glowed as if it had been placed in a
furnace. His face contorted, and he
fell dead.

The boy who plaited sunbeams
got up in a quiet, alert way and walked
forward, as noiseless on his feet as a
lynx. He reached down and took the
cloak off the body of the lord, twirled
it and placed it on his own shoulders,
and it did not harm him. But in that
cloak he seemed insubstantial, like
something moving in moonlight and
shadow, something nameless roam-
ing in the night. He walked out of
the open dungeon door, between the
guards clustered there, past the lord’s
retinue and the steward, and they all
shrank back from him, flattened them-
selves against the stone walls of the
corridor so as not to come near him.
No one dared take hold of him or try
to stop him. He walked out through
the courtyard, past the stable, and
out the manor gates with the settled
air of one whose business is done.
The men-at-arms gathered atop the
wall and watched him go.

Wald the master groom lived to

The Boy Who Plaited Manes

159

old age sweating every night with
terror, and died of a weakened heart
in the midst of a nightmare. Nothing
else but his own fear harmed him.
The boy who plaited — mane of sun,
mane of moon — was never seen

again in that place, except that chil-
dren sometimes told the tale of hav-
ing glimpsed him in the wild heart of
a storm, plaiting the long lashes of
wind and rain.

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inanK i«l puMKulK>ni

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300 North Zeeh Road. Dept. P.R.. Ann Arbor. Mi. 48106

YOURS FREE

WITH MEMBERSHIP

THE COMPLETE
BOOK OF SWORDS

12 swords of power are loose in the
world. Giant 3-in-1 volume includes
the First, Second and Third Books.

3095 Pub ed $12 95 3533 Pub ed $1595 *

. ub ed $1995 2212 Endw's Game;

Speaker for Om Dead. Cempany; Skadows

Comb pub. ed. $29.90 Ueper; The White
Rose. Spec ed.

And take 4 more for M with membership

SEE OTHER SIDE FOR ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS

How the Club works:

Vtxj’tl receive your ctioice of any 4 t)ooks for only $1 (plus
shipping and handling) and a free copy of The Com^te
Book of Swords after your application for membership
is accepted. We reserve the right to reject any applica-
tion. However, once accepted as a member, you may
examine the books in your home and, if not completely
satisfied, return them within 10 days at Club expense.
Your membership will be cancelled and you’ll owe
nothing. The FREE book will be yours to keep whether
or not you remain a member.

About every 4 weeks (14 times a year), we’ll send you
the Club’s bulletin. Things to Come, describing the 2
coming Selections and a variety of Alternate choices. In
addition, up to 4 times a year you may receive offers of
special Selections, always at low Club prices. If you want
the 2 Selections, you need do nothing, they’ll be ship-
ped automatically.

If you don’t want a Selection, prefer an Alternate or
no book at all, just fill out the convenient form always
provided and return it to us by the date specified.

We allow you at least 10 days for making your deci-
sion. If you do not receive the form in time to respond
within 10 days and receive an unwanted Selection, you
may return it at our expense.

As a member you need buy only 4 books at regular
low Club prices during the coming yw. You may resign
any time foereafter or continue to enjoy Club benefits for
as long as you wish. One of the 2 Selections each month
Is only $4.98. Other Selections are higher, but always
rnuch less than hardcover pubishers’ ecftions— up to 65%
off. The Club offers more than 400 books to choose from.
A shipping and handing charge is added to aN sNpments.
Send no money now, but do mail the coupon today!

Not*: Pricot showR are publishers' edition prices.

rjalEN^'Ficnm'Bo^^

j Dept. BS-277, Garden City, NY 11535
I I want the best SF in or out of this world! Please accept my
> application for membership in the Science Fiction Book Club .
I Send me the 4 books whose numbers I have indicated in the
' boxes below plus my FREE book and bill me just $1 (plus
I shipping and handling). I agree to the Club Plan as described
in this ad. I will take 4 more books at regular Club prices in the
coming year and may resign any time thereafter. The FREE
I book will be mine to keep whether or not I remain a member.
! SFBC offers serious works for mature readers.

Mr.

Ms.

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Address Apt. #

City

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If under 18. parent must sign

The Science Fiction Book Club offers its own complete hard-
bound editions sometimes altered in size to fit special
presses and save you even more. Members accepted in
U.S.A. and Canada only. Canadian members will be serviced
from Canada. Offer slightly different in Canada. 26-S021A

1S33 Pub. ed $1895

m2 Pub. ad. $14.95

1 I nL ►

ti BOOK
OflOST
» TALES

Witness a game so
deadly, even the gods
are ^mbling!

Get The Complete Book of Swords
Free with membership

The Coming
of the
Quantum
Cats

fVeda^Pohl

1800 Spec ad

3038 Spec ed.

2360 Spec ed.

0752 EMC ef
MeMbaeO' The Seiler
an Me Sen ef Fate;
TkeWeMofMe

WhtteWaH.SpecEd.

2105 Escape VWecity;
The Warleck In Spite
at Himself. Spe« ed.

I

AND TAKE 4 IMORE FOR H

WITH MEMBERSHIP

See other side for coupon and additional Seleetiorrs.

^OENCE FICTION BOOK aOB;^ ,

Bteseme.

JXeayrliM C 1086 by Parameent Ptctares Cerperatlan.
STAR TREK n a Trademark ef Parameent PIctems Cerperatlen
Ref istered In Me U.S. Patent and Trademark Office. All RIpMs Reserved.

Nete: Prices shewn are pebllsbers' editien prices.